


Unlearning Loneliness

by SlipOfAScribe



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Established Relationship, Explicit for later sex and violence, Halamshiral, Hurt/Comfort, Lavellan Clan - Freeform, Loss of Lavellan Clan, M/M, Major Spoilers, Male Slash, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Post-Game(s), Rope Bondage, Sex, Some Fluff, Spoilers, Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlipOfAScribe/pseuds/SlipOfAScribe
Summary: Mahanon receives terrible news from his advisors, and he seeks ways to deal with the sudden, painful loss. Dorian rushes to his side, forsaking their agreement to subtly for the sake of his lover's well-being.Their relationship evolves with the changing of the Inquisition, and both struggle to hold onto one another for as long as they can.





	1. We never know how high we are

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't use a beta, so all sorts of feedback are welcome!

A knock sounded on the heavy doors of Mahanon Lavellan’s room, and he was jolted from his concentration of the reports that were spread across his desk. They were from Harding regarding some of her scout findings and the resources she’d been able to gather out of the Fallow Mires. He put the papers down and went to the doors, pulling them open to find a guardsman shifting nervously from foot to foot. Mahanon had gotten used to people acting anxiously around him, but something about this felt different. An odd tightness formed in his chest as he watched the guard fight with his own mouth for the words.

“Your Worship…” The guard coughed and took a step back. “Seeker Pentaghast requires your presence in the War Room. I’m-I’m sorry.” He bowed his head low and darted away.

Mahanon watched him go with a growing suspicion. The worry that set in had him ignoring the attire he wore and pressed him to head to the War Room immediately. His bare feet were quiet on the stone floors, cautiously avoiding any debris that still remained during the renovations. His mind buzzed as he stepped out, glancing at the hulking, ugly red throne that sat beneath the inquisition banners. Light was streaming in through the enormous colored glass windows behind it, and Mahanon thought that others might find it an impressive sight. He, though, felt it was ostentatious and a waste. Particularly while his chest tightened and made it hard for him to breathe. 

Things had been going so well. It actually seemed like they were making progress, taking out shipments of red lyrium and collapsing violent revolutions against their cause. Things were well, but now something had gone wrong. He pushed through the first two sets of doors and found Ambassador Josephine’s desk empty; everyone was gathered then, which meant something big. Mahanon paused outside the War Room doors and listened. He could hear the deep tones of Commander Cullen leaking from behind the heavy wood that separated them.

“...telling him. This is something he needs to hear from someone he trusts.”

“He needs to hear from the one who sent the troops!” Josephine’s higher, melodic voice poured out, closer to the door than Cullen was.

A dread of suspicion knowing filled Mahanon’s lungs, constricting his throat. He just  _ knew _ . The four voices kicked in all at once, arguing, but the words were lost to Mahanon as he put shaking hands flat to the doors and shoved them open. They creaked open, the metal hinges needing oil.

The room fell quiet. Sunlight poured in from the window, casting light over the marked up map that was stretched across a large tree trunk table. Figurines were set about it, marking their active troop movements, potential allies and rivals, and strong places of resources. It all looked eerily normal, but the feeling in the room was that of tension. Each one of his advisors seemed a coil, tense and ready to spring forth.

“What went wrong?” Mahanon’s voice was already strung out, cracking at the last note as he scanned their faces.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Josephine murmured. Her hands clutched at her writing board until her knuckles went white. “We have a new report.” Her eyes shot to Cullen, waiting for him to produce the news.

Cassandra was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over her armored chest and head down so that she wasn't looking Mahanon in the eyes. Still, he sought her gaze, some clue as to what was going on. She’d been there from the start, believing in him after closing the first rift despite his seeming guilt. He needed her support, but she did not seem to want to give it.

Cullen was shifting as anxiously as the guard who had fetched the Inquisitor, while Leliana was seated and staring at the commander.

Mahanon folded his arms over his chest. “What. Happened?”

In a flurry of movement, Cullen yanked a report from the table and handed it across the space. The paper was mostly unrolled but kept trying to fold back on itself so it flapped noisily. It made Josephine jump. Swallowing hard, Mahanon reached across the space and took it from him.

“I’m sorry, Lavellan. We were too late.”

Mahanon’s eyes scanned the paper, then he read it again. As he read it a third time, his head shook back and forth. “No,” he breathed out. “No, this--this isn’t-” He choked on his breath, finding it suddenly very hard to breathe. His throat was too tight. He tried to read it again, to make sure, but tears clouded his vision and his hands were shaking. 

“Mahanon…” Cassandra’s voice slipped as a whisper past the screaming in Mahanon’s head. “Your mark.”

His stomach curled, a serpent twisting his gut to fire, and suddenly he felt the need to rid himself of his breakfast. “Gods-” he groaned, crushing the paper in his fist and lurching away from the table and his advisors. If he had had any mind beyond the loss of the Levallan clan, he might have felt some shame at showing such weakness. As it was, he could barely hear the voices that tried to reach him as he pressed a hand to his crushed chest, and held himself against the wall with his other hand. He folded in half, dry heaving as he tried to catch his breath. 

It was the green glow that made Cassandra’s pleading make sense. His arm was alight from the mark, the eerie light encompassing most of his arm. The intricate scarring on his hand pulsed like it did when the rift had widened early on. He gasped, grabbing at it as he fell to his knees.

“Get Dorian!” Cassandra called out as she sunk down next to Mahanon, running a hand over his back.

Cullen was still at the table, frozen because an emotional battle was one he did not understand how to navigate. “Dorian? What about Solas?”

“Because,” Cassandra sputtered for a moment, gripping Mahanon’s shoulder. “Yes, Solas, too. But trust me, we need Dorian.”

Mahanon leaned into Cassandra’s touch, still shaking as his whole world seemed to be collapsing in itself. “No, he doesn't want-”

“Please,” she whispered. “He will come when you need him.”

Cassandra was the only one Mahanon had told of his relationship with Dorian. The Tevinter Altus had made it clear that he would not tolerate rumors about their relationship, and therefore they'd kept it quiet while they navigated each other. Mahanon had asked Dorian before telling Cassandra, explaining that she was the closest friend he had here, outside of his Clan. Gods, his clan! If his Keeper was still alive… but no; she made it clear it was all gone. While some may yet be running, the clan itself was perished. They could hide, but likely not together. And without a clan, his Keeper, their first and second, were apostates in a world with a broken Chantry, warring Templars, and an Inquisition of Rebel Mages. They would not be safe. They would-

“Amatus!” Dorian’s melodic tones were stressed with worry, sounding less like his confident showmanship and more like the worried tones he used in private when they spoke of his past, their future. “Breathe, Mahanon. Here, look at me. Come now, you know how much you love to stare wistfully at this handsome face. Look at me now, amatus. Take a breath, please.”

The words helped. Hearing Dorian there, pleading to him even while others hovered in worried airs--Dorian was at his side though they'd agreed to secrecy. 

Mahanon slowly pushed up from the wall, turning into Dorian and latching his arms around his neck. “My clan, Dorian. They're all… I was too late.” His voice cracked and tears dropped unbidden, but he wasn't yet fully crying. It was all still bottled as he tried to bring himself back from the edge, to be Inquisitor Lavellan, leader of these gathered, a strong symbol against a power mad abomination. How would they follow if he was weak?

“I know,” Dorian whispered. “And you are allowed to feel this. We will think no less of you.” 

Dorian knew; he always knew and Mahanon feared his loss. If he could lose his entire clan, he could not also lose Dorian. Mahanon’s eyes opened, peering over Dorian's shoulder at the rest of the room. He had to know, who watched this downfall. Cassandra hovered near, hands tangled and constantly moving about each other. Josephine and Leliana stood close together, whispering together. Cullen leaned on the table, eyes on the note and seeming to be going over the details of how it could have happened. Then there was Solas, leaning on his staff near the doorway. He watched Mahanon closely, particularly the mark as it glowed brightly from Mahanon’s arm.

Hands were on his face, drawing his attention back to Dorian. He could feel the wetness of tears smoothed over under those attentive, surprisingly calloused fingers. Mahanon gave into the physical around him, needing to ground himself somewhere. He watched the creases around Dorian’s eyes, the heavy lines that grew as the mage narrowed his gaze in concern. He had such long lashes, thick and dark that clouded the amber color of the irises, so close now Mahanon thought he could feel the brush of them along his own face. He put his forehead to Dorian’s, and the warmth of skin to skin contact was soothing against the unnatural chill that was running down his spine.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath as he grasped at the silken fabric at Dorian’s shoulders. He was still in the mage robes Mahanon had discreetly gotten him in Orlais--beautiful silken white and blue, with enough straps and buckles to hold it properly in place while Dorian casted. With his hands buried in the fabric, Mahanon felt it could hold him in place right now, too.

They stood up slowly together and Mahanon took in a few more deep breaths. Each one felt less and less forced. He let go with one hand to straighten his clothes, the solid ground beneath his bare feet reminding him of where he was and who he was supposed to be.

Though he could not yet make himself let go of Dorian completely, he stood taller and coughed down the few remaining sobs that sought to defy him. “I’m sorry that you had to-”

“Don’t,” Dorian interrupted. “Perish the absolute thought of an apology. You owe us nothing of the sort.”

“But I am supposed to be your leader. I cannot allow myself weakness.”

“Grief is not weakness, Lavellan,” Cullen said. The turn up in the corner of his mouth was silent support, meant to reassure Mahanon.

Josephine, still holding close to Leliana, added, “You were there to support many of us during times we often considered our weakest points, and we would be there for you during the same.”

“You also refused to allow us to feel that we were weak in those moments. This…” Cassandra shook her head. “This deserves time.”

Solas had left quietly at some point as Mahanon did not see him anywhere now. He was not the type to join this sort of talk anyway. Likely, Mahanon would seek him some time later.

Dorian slipped an arm around Mahanon’s waist. “Come, let’s go to your quarters, eh?”

Though the urge to completely wrap himself around Dorian and let the shemlen carry him all the way to the bedroom was great, Mahanon nodded and allowed himself to be lead out of the War Room. Fortunately, not many strayed so close to the throne that there would be a crowd to be maneuvered through, but there were plenty of nobles in the hall to see Dorian and Mahanon wrapped about one another and disappearing into the Inquisitor’s quarters. Stopping at the last door before the main hall, Mahanon put a hand out on it. 

“They’ll see,” he said softly.

“Let them. You said you wanted more than a port in a storm, so if I am to be there for you, I need to  _ be there _ for you.” Dorian was still speaking in his softer, private-quarters voice, and Mahanon couldn’t help but give in to it. 

So, Dorian pushed the door open and they stepped out. Mahanon flinched, expecting a scene to occur. His concern for Dorian mingled with the waves of grief that washed over him. It was met with nothing but quiet chatter and a look or two their way; it was met with relief. The two disappeared into the Inquisitor’s quarters, and life outside of it returned, mostly, to normal.

Within the Inquisitor’s quarters, the Tevinter and the Dalish mingled uncomfortably. Mahanon sat on the chaise lounge, the book he’d had open on it now discarded to the floor, place forgotten. He sat with his elbows on his knees, bare feet dug into the floor and hands in his hair as he stared heavily at the ground. The sounds of Dorian pacing the room, soft leather boots scuffing at each turn, echoed through the silence between them. 

“I should have gone myself,” Mahanon whispered. 

The room was still enough that Dorian heard it just fine, though. He stopped his pacing and gave out a huff of breath. “The timing would have remained the same; the outcome was, unfortunately, inevitable. Except that you might have died with them.”

“Perhaps I should have.”

“Don’t.” The force in the word pulled Mahanon’s head upwards as though Dorian had commanded it through his magic. “Don’t you dare do that to me.” His arms were folded over his chest and his nose crinkled up at the bridge. It was a hurt grimace he held, the right side of his lips pulled up to reveal a splash of white teeth. Mahanon knew the look well--it was the one he wore when he spoke of the things that pained him most. 

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan.” Mahanon shifted on the seat as he spoke, reaching out a hand toward Dorian, beseeching. The need for understanding was strong after seeing such pain across his lover’s features. “That was spoken from a place of emotion, not truth.” 

For a moment Dorian just looked at the outstretched hand, but then he nodded and took up his pacing again. The man needed to move to think properly; it was part of what made his magic casting such a show to watch. Mahanon watched him walk, finding the motions calming to his own mind. “What do you need, amatus?”

“I don’t know. So much is happening at once; I’m not sure I know what I need or what I think right now.” Mahanon buried his hands in his hair again, tugging at it in frustration. “Should I break down and cry at the loss now, properly? Should I throw things around the room, angry at everything? Curse out the shem-” He choked down the word, fighting with the knowledge that he was angry at the humans but also in love with one. He took a deep breath and let it out in a huff through his nose. Letting his hands fall away from his head, he leaned back so that his shoulders pressed into the wall behind the chaise and his feet pushed on the ground to keep him from sliding off the chaise. “I have half a mind to ask you to fuck me to a numb sleep.”

Dorian tsked at him. “Would that really be beneficial?”

A quiet hesitation fell between them as Mahanon’s face took on a squinted debate. “Can I ask you something that might bring back bad memories for you?”

There was only a moment’s hesitation before Dorian answered, “Yes.”

“How did you deal with leaving everything behind? While your family lives, you do not seem comfortable returning to Tevinter.”

“I don’t know that this is the same. I know that my family and home remain, waiting for me if I ever decide to return. You do not have that luxury.” He was drawing closer, still keeping the distance that Mahanon seemed to need for thinking through this, but showing that he was there for him if he needed.

Mahanon tilted his head in acquiescence. “But you cannot go back, not without changing who you are. That was made clear enough to me.” He swallowed, thinking. “If you are not comfortable with-”

“I drank a lot. What I did will not benefit you, amatus. I would not wish to see you take the path that I took.” 

Dorian had paused a few feet from the chaise, and the falling sunlight cast through window lit him up with fire. It blazed along the olive-tan skin, the dark hair, and shadowed his deep set eyes. The satin of his robes shimmered, and Mahanon tried to imagine this wonder of a man as broken as he seemed to once be. It was not a pleasant thought. 

“I think I need to hit something.”

Dorian barked out a laugh, shaking his head as a smile grew on his face. “You’re ever full of surprises, Mahanon. But,” he sighed and loosened his taut stance. “If that is what will help, let’s change and head down to the yard. I’m sure The Iron Bull and his Chargers will give you something to hit.”

Mahanon’s head still spun with the immediate grief, and he needed a better outlet than ‘sit and think.’ As Dalish, he’d always lived with a song of grief in his heart for all that had been taken from his people. They were taught to carry that grief with purpose, though, rebuilding and passing along as much of the culture as they could. His purpose now would be building the Inquisition powerful enough to take down Corypheus and hopefully start Thedas down the road to a better, united future. If Mahanon had it his way, he’d influence change everywhere. Later, perhaps, he’d dwell on the significance of how close that goal is to Corypheus’s own. 

Down in the courtyard, Bull already had his Chargers training. They’d worked out shifts with Cullen and sometimes trained together. This late afternoon, though, belonged completely to The Iron Bull. As Mahanon went down, now in his training leathers and a solid set of boots, he was aware of the eyes on the battlements. Cullen and Cassandra were keeping watch. He was sure Leliana was at the window of the tower, watching as well. Of course they cared about him as a person, a friend, but he was more than that. If their Inquisitor fell, so did their Inquisition. They could not afford that.

Dorian walked with him, in his original Tevinter leathers. He likely wouldn’t join the fight, but Mahanon guessed he felt more comfortable in those while wandering near fighting. 

Stepping up to the sparring ring, Mahanon leaned his arms on the fencing and watched Bull knock Krem and Grim back with a solid swing of his shield arm. The two went spilling out on the dirt and the break gave them time to glance over at their newest attendant. Mahanon bowed his head slightly at them and turned his attentions to Bull. 

“Hey, Boss. Business or pleasure?” The Iron Bull sank into a resting position while his partners got to their feet. 

“Mm, personal but definitely not pleasure.” Mahanon watched the guys pull back, hitting the sidelines but watching with curiosity. “I need to hit something. Any chance you can help with that?”

Bull smirked. “Aren’t you already hitting that?” He jabbed a finger at Dorian.

“It’s quite the other way around, I assure you,” Dorian fired back. 

Had their banter not always been of a sexual nature, Mahanon would have been surprised at the easy admission from Dorian. He was still taken aback that someone beyond Cassandra knew. Of course, word would soon be all over the keep if pattern kept true; Dorian openly taking Mahanon to his quarters would spark the gossip trail, if it hadn’t already.

Bull laughed, head tossed back and everything. “Alright, I can help you with that. Weapon?”

“Hand to hand.” 

The comment was received with a drawn look, eyebrows high and mouth slightly gaping. Mahanon was amazingly small next to the Qunari. Hell, he was small next to most of his team, excepting Sera. He was also trained in the more roguish style of fighting, slipping through shadows and cutting unsuspecting or maimed foe down with his twin blades. He was not a head-to-head with a brawler type 

combatant.

“Something got you angry there, Boss?”

Krem spoke up at about the same time. “Hand-to-hand with the Chief? You looking to hit or get hit?”

“A bit of both, I think.” Mahanon stepped into the ring, rolling his shoulders and roving an assessing look up and down Bull. The sun was still peering over the castle towers, casting a spotlight of sun down on the ring, and it glinted in Bull’s eye as Mahanon circled.

It was cheap, but Mahanon used this. Besides, he knew The Iron Bull could handle anything he threw at him. Running forward in a couple of quick steps, Mahanon zig-zagged as Bull fell back into a stronger stance and threw a punch toward the shadow darting his way. Mahanon easily ducked, drew a knee up to drive forward into Bull’s gut. He jumped into the attack so that he could hit his mark. Bull wasn’t expecting the leap and so miscalculated his counter. Mahanon’s knee made contact with Bull’s hip, and the Qunari actually gave some ground while the elf used the force to leap away and land crouched on his feet a couple of steps back.

The onlooking Chargers began the loud cheering and commentary, edging the fighters on. Of course, the pairing of warriors also brought other curious onlookers. Mahanon paid none of them any mind. Getting lost in the calculations of battle was enough to wash away a lot of the emotions and thoughts he didn’t currently want to face.

Bull and Mahanon fell together again, a close quarter series of punches and blocks where neither gained ground or landed a hit beyond the clashing of forearms. Bull must have sensed some seriousness in Mahanon because his usual banter fell away and he became a commander, leading Mahanon through the fight in a way that benefited them both and kept them from hurting one another. It was exactly what Mahanon needed. 

Watching for an opening, Mahanon saw Bull take one of his wind ups and realized he’d be switching his weight. Blocking a glancing blow, Mahanon ducked his head, darted to the left where Bull would be giving up his rooted foot and drove downward with his shin. With someone smaller he would have just kicked, but it would require more weight than that to take down The Iron Bull. In a heartbeat’s time, Bull lost his footing, going down on his knee in surprise. He was a warrior though, and reflexes were everything. As he went down, he threw a fist in defense. 

Mahanon did not guard for a hit as he’d used his body weight to take out Bull’s leg. His arms were tucked at ninety degree angles at his sides for support as he began to stand from the attack he’d landed, and so the elf found himself with a face full of Qunari fist. It landed solidly on his jaw and sent him spinning, ending sprawled chest down in the dirt of the ring. He’d let out a grunt and caught himself with his hands, feeling the rocks on the ground scuff the skin of his palms. His head rung with bees, but he could hear the gasp from the gathered onlookers.

“Shit, Boss. Are you alright?” Bull was up and at his side a moment later.

Pushing himself upright to his knees, Mahanon ran the back of his hand over his jaw and lip. It came away with a streak of crimson and he coughed out a chortle. “Yeah, Bull. I’m alright.”

The Iron Bull stood up and held out his hand. Mahanon took it and felt himself lifted effortlessly to his feet. “Damn good fight, right?”

Mahanon nodded. “Damn good. Just what I needed. Thanks.” He clasped hands with Bull, giving it a solid shake. “I’d like a rematch eventually.”

The Qunari laughed. “Knew I signed on with a badass. Come find me anytime you need to be knocked on your ass again, Boss.”

Mahanon nodded to him and turned to look for Dorian. Realizing the fun was over, the crowd was breaking up and people were returning to their work or leisure. Dorian was leaned against the fence, looking up from his boots when Mahanon approached. 

“You were surprisingly quiet through that,” Mahanon hummed. He tested how close Dorian would let him press, still unsure of the new boundaries of their relationship out where prying eyes could see.

Dorian snorted and reached over to wipe away more of the blood. “I kept my head down for most of it so that I wouldn’t see anything and be tempted to drag you out of there.” He looked at the blood on his fingers and grimaced. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Ma serannas, vhenan.”

Mahnon’s mind was numb, and that was exactly what he’d been looking for. His jaw was throbbing from Bull’s punch, and his body was already beginning to ache from the exertion of the sparring. Dorian led him to the baths, the private ones used by the advisors and inner circle. Blissfully, they stood empty. Since the ache was spreading, Mahanon allowed Dorian to help him undress, and they dropped the dirt covered clothing in a heap on the floor. If prepared, the baths could be heated by fires from beneath, but they’d decided on this rather suddenly. Fortunately, Mahanon was bonding with a mage.

Dorian didn’t have a staff with him to help focus his magic, but the task was small enough; he reached a hand into the cool pool and it glowed red. The waters heated quickly, and Mahanon sighed as he lowered his abused body into the depths. He was short, even for an elf, and the water poured over his shoulders. The warmth was quick to work into the muscles, calming the twitching nerves. He gazed up at Dorian who stood hunched in on himself, looking small and worried.

“Come in with me, Dor.” Mahanon couldn’t bear to see his own grief reflected on the face of his lover, not while he was struggling to deal with what he was emotionally. 

With a nod, Dorian stripped down and added his clothes to the pile. He slipped in next to Mahanon, the water only coming to his mid-chest. “Are you-” Dorian shook his head. “Amatus, I’m sorry.” 

The need for touch finally settled over the Dalish, so he waded across the small space and folded himself into his lover’s arms. They sat on the bench of the pool with Dorian against the wall and Mahanon between his legs, back pressed to Dorian’s chest. As the quiet of the empty space filled the hollows of their ears, Mahanon felt the depth of his new grief return. A sharp inhale and heavy sob wracked his lithe form. He felt strong arms wrap around him, holding him as the crying took a primal toll on his mind. It was Dorian’s arms that kept him from falling to pieces in that moment, and his voice whispering at his ear that kept his mind grounded in sanity. As much as he wanted to hate the world, to hate the shemlans for all they had taken from his people and from him, Mahanon had also seen so much good. He was in love with a shemlan for Elgar’nan’s sake! The words whispered in Mahanon’s ears were mostly lost murmurs, but the soft, vibrating tones helped calm him.

As the tears slowed and his breathing came back to him, he caught part of what Dorian said to him, the mantra of a lost mage, “I’m sorry, amatus. I’m sorry.” Dorian then hummed something in his own native Tevinter, and though Mahanon didn’t understand it completely, he felt the empathetic intention behind the words. 

“How- I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, Dorian.” 

The Tevinter put his lips to the Dalish’s cheek. “Endure, Mahanon. And let me help you.”

Mahanon pulled away, the warm water rippling with his movements; Dorian must have been keeping it heated for them. He pooled water in his hands and scrubbed the tears from his face before turning around. “I want to be angry, but I just feel tired,” He said as he put his hands on Dorian’s shoulders. He watched the man’s deep set eyes, still narrow with concern. He ran his fingers over Dorian’s brow, smoothing the worried frown. “You’ll give yourself a headache if you keep that up.”

“It is I that should be soothing you. How did I get this so wrong?”

“You  _ are _ helping, Dorian. This is what I need. You are what I need right now.” They stayed swaying in the water for a moment, just staring at one another and fussing over one another’s faces. 

“Here,” Dorian said. “Let me wash your hair.” He climbed from the water and went for the little shelf with all of the products. Between Dorian, Josephine, and Vivienne, they were well stocked with soaps, salts, and any sort of fragrance one might want to add to a bath. 

Mahanon watched from the bath as Dorian brought over a glass bottle with a bluish cream inside. The Tevinter stood smiling softly down at him, unabashed at his naked state and the openness the two had with one another. “You are beautiful, amatus. Did you know this?”

His eyes still stung from crying and he knew his cheeks were flushed a ruddy red, but still he felt handsome as Dorian praised him. “Hush and come back to me,” he said reaching out a hand toward him. 

Dorian chuckled, his own eyes glistening with his tears that he'd held back. “It’s true. Not just physically, though. I am lucky to be able to spend my days with one so caring and dedicated.” Dorian climbed back into the water, setting the bottle down on the edge of the pool so he could take Mahanon in his arms. 

Mahanon let himself be enfolded in the other man’s arms and went up on his tiptoes to press his lips to Dorian’s. “I-” He took a breath, not sure of this moment being the right one. “Thank you. For being here when I needed you most. You’ve been, you  _ are _ , well I don't think I would make it through this alone.” Mahanon had never felt so stumbling before. 

Dorian kissed him again, “Well, we flatter each other, then.”

The two broke apart, and Dorian slathered Mahanon’s scalp with the cream. Fingers massaged into the short cropped hair, sending shocks of electricity down the spine. The Tevinter’s hands were magic in themselves, coaxing a relaxed state from the Dalish while they steamed in the bath. Occasionally, waves of warmth poured around them, a flash of reddish magic shining along Dorian’s arms. Mahanon had to be careful to keep his head above the water as he melted beneath the touch. 

“Tilt your head back, amatus. Let me wash it out,” Dorian hummed at his ear. He planted a kiss to his cheek before Mahanon complied. 

Leaning back, Manhanon trusted Dorian to keep his face out of the water. He had his eyes closed lightly, mouth gaping as he breathed slowly in and out. It felt he hadn’t had a moment to just breathe in quite some time. Even in the wake of tragedy, here with Dorian now, he allowed himself to feel happy in his relaxation. It would take time to fully process the loss of his Clan, which Mahanon would allow himself later. Now, his head was stuffed full of a dull buzz, his eyes still stung from the salts tears, and his heart was torn between love and loss. It was enough to sit and let Dorian lead him for a time.

Water poured over his head, but steady hands kept it from washing over his face. When Dorian seemed to deem him clean enough, he lifted Mahanon’s head back up. Turning, Mahanon sought his arms again. He did not want to leave this moment and face the realities that awaited them outside of the bath. Here, he could pretend that nothing was wrong, nothing was lost, nothing was falling to pieces and slipping as sand through his fingers. 

Hooded brown eyes stared down into Mahanon’s and he felt his throat tighten. His fingers griped at Dorian’s back, seeking strength for the conversation he felt he needed to have. “I don’t know what to do when we leave here.”

“What do you mean? When we leave Skyhold?” Dorian didn’t seem to mind the grip Mahanon had on him; at least, he wasn’t saying anything about it. Instead, he kept an arm around the elf’s waist, and his other hand was resting against his cheek, thumb running over Mahanon’s cheekbone soothingly. 

“No,” Mahanon said shaking his head. “When we leave the bath. When I have to-” His throat hurt it was so tight. He didn’t want to cry again. He didn’t want to feel this weakness flood through. “I don’t want to have to think I am alone, that this will all end eventually, and I will have nowhere to go.” He realized as he spoke that he could hurt Dorian’s feelings with this, that Dorian might expect that he  _ would  _ have a place, with him.

What others didn’t get to see about Dorian was what he hid beneath the confident self-love--the caring side of things. He gave them glimpses, of course, but often buried it with a comment precisely aimed at bugging them or flattering himself. With Mahanon, alone, he was someone else. He dropped the wall and just understood. “Mahanon, I couldn’t say what will come for either of us, or how this little Inquisition will progress and evolve, but so long as you will allow it, I plan to be at your side.” He kept them at a distance with his hand so that they were looking each other in the eye, his point being made more strongly by this. “Or you by mine, however the road leads. I may not be able to--no, that is the wrong word,” he hummed thoughtfully.

“Replace,” Mahanon offered, knowing it was what he had paused at and now refused to say.

“Fine... _ replace  _ your Clan, but I will do my best to be the support that you need.”

A slow, small smile crept across Mahanon’s lips and he leaned his forehead to Dorian’s, closing his eyes and inhaling. The muskier scent that the Tevintor gave off invaded his nose and climbed through him, settling in his gut. He could call this home; he wanted to call this home. “Thank you, Dorian. I know that…” Well, he knew that humans weren’t as emotional a creature as elves and he didn’t want to push his boundaries any further.

“Yes?” Dorian prompted. 

“I want to stay with you as well. I know that others, that in Tevinter they don’t--” Mahanon stumbled. “I do.”

Dorian’s arms moved quickly about him, tightening and hugging Mahanon closer. The elf felt himself lifted up from the water a bit, cold air hitting his exposed back, but the warmth of the hug kept any real chill away. This time, the few tears that fell were hopeful.  

“I think I want to go to bed.” Mahanon was still clung to Dorian, his lips brushing along the other's neck as he spoke. “It's early, but I cannot out my mind to anything else today.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Would you like to be alone?”

“No!” Mahanon panicked, gripping tighter at Dorian. “Please…”

Dorian hushed him, rubbing a hand in circles over his back. “Shh, I won't go anywhere. I'll stay with you tonight.”

It was Dorian who got them out, dried up, and into the Inquisitor quarters quickly. They fell into bed naked, skin pressed to sign and buried under the mound of blankets and pillows Mahanon nested in. He had his back pressed to Dorian’s chest, and Dorian had an arm draped over him protectively. Once they were settled, flashes of memories ran through Mahanon’s mind: he and Rianen huddled together after a hunt; his Keeper gathering the young ones for stories; the field of flowers he lost his virginity in to Lellanon. Mahanon wept for it all again, Dorian whispering in his ear until exhausted sleep overtook him.


	2. Till we are called to rise;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working through some emotions with their changing relationship boundaries. Dorian and Mahanon are stuck out on the Storm Coast for a couple weeks, then work through some misunderstandings back in Skyhold.
> 
> Dragon Age Quest: Wardens of the Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild angst, a bit of sex, and mild spoilers. Still no beta, so feel free to point out errors!
> 
> Dorian's age comes from: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Dorian_Pavus which says he was born 9:11 Dragon and Inquisition starts 9:41 making him 30 years old :)

Word had indeed spread about Mahanon taking up with his Tevinter mage, and once the scandal died down to a dull roar, the two were mostly able to ignore it all. Mahanon was thankful for Dorian’s increased presence (albeit platonic in public), particularly after some of the longer, more intense missions. The man was likely the only reason Mahanon was able to make it through some weeks. 

This week they’d been hauling themselves around the Storm Coast, trying to locate some real sign of the Grey Wardens and their disappearance. Blackwall, The Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Dorian had pressed to go with him for this task, and he honestly welcomed the company. The other members of what Mahanon considered his inner circle were busy with their own tasks, and everyone would hopefully regroup in a couple of weeks.

“Weeks,” Dorian echoed his thoughts. They were seated together in a tent, the heavier rain and the dark of nightfall forcing them to stop for the evening. “I have to last in this…” He made a tsking sound between his teeth. “Damp for weeks.”

Across from him, Mahanon smiled as he watched the human complain; he got this tight, concentrated look on his face when he was annoyed and Mahanon found it endearing. “You could have stayed in Skyhold,” he teased, peeling the thigh-high dragon-scale boot from his leg.

“As though that is an actual option while  _ you _ decide to traipse around the coast with a bunch of dull witted warriors whose answer to everything is 'let’s hit it with a sword and see what happens.’” Even sopping wet in the close quarters of the tent, Dorian looked like a god. Whatever magic he was using to keep the black makeup lined around his eyes did wonders, and Mahanon found himself staring, one boot still on. “Honestly, you think I could leave you alone with them? Look at you, amatus. You can hardly take care of yourself.”

Mahanon chuckled. “Is that right?”

With a harumph, Dorian conceded. “Fine, you can take care of yourself, but I prefer to help.”

Dorian shuffled across the space that kept them separated and took over sliding Mahanon’s other boot off. He set them carefully aside before reaching up and smoothing the rain-slick hair back from Mahanon’s forehead. Then he went to work carefully stripping away the rest of the wet clothes. Mahanon let out a few soft protests, but they fell on unhearing ears. He’d made a pile in the far corner of the tent, as far from them as possible, and still made the effort to fold the things. “Hopefully we can get a break from the rain and dry some of these out.”

“Can’t you just use your magic?” Mahanon grinned, watching him with attentive eyes. He shivered in his newly naked state but didn’t move from where he was for now. He liked when Dorian took control like this. They both knew this game by now, and the more helpless Mahanon played, the more Dorian fussed over him. It was something that helped them both. Occasionally, Mahanon just needed to be cared for, and occasionally it really helped Dorian when he felt needed, wanted, beyond mere sexual endeavors.

“And risk setting them on fire?” Dorian shook his head, still playing slightly incredulous. The furrow between his eyes and the wrinkle of his nose made Mahanon grin. The mage swooped back over and ran his hands up and down Mahanon’s bare arms. “You're freezing amatus!” Warmth flooded beneath his touch. 

Teeth chattering, Mahanon shook his head. “Careful not to set me on fire.” He hummed, leaning into the touch.

“Hush, you.” 

Of course, they both enjoyed the sexual nature of their relationship as well and so, between the heat of the magic and the little thrills that ran beneath Mahanon’s skin at Dorian’s wandering hands, the Dalish found himself half hard. Heat pooled low in his belly having nothing to do with the magic. Reaching out, Mahanon ran his own hands over Dorian's shoulders to push the fabric away from them. It quickly became a tangled mess with all the buckles and clips Dorian had, and they both chuckled.

“I need those off of you, ma vhenan. They make it hard for me to do as I please.”

“And who gave you permission to do as you please with me, hmm?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow but was already unclipping himself from his complicated clothing.

Mahanon laughed again. “Alright, fine. I suppose I won't ravish you, then.”

A flicker of something Mahanon might have called fear passed over Dorian’s face and his hands stumbled as he glanced toward the entrance of their tent. No locks, no real walls. A pang of concern flitted through Mahanon’s chest. Even out here, Dorian must have feared attention in regard to their relationship. Though they were quite a bit more open, they’d remained chaste in public for Dorian’s sake as he adjusted to the idea that they  _ could _ have something serious. The reactionary concern gave Mahanon another reason to dislike Shemlans, and Tevinters in particular, for they had put that fear in his lover. He wanted Dorian to feel unabashedly happy with his life, not that he had to hide who he was and whom he loved. 

Catching himself, Dorian smiled and pressed closer. “Let's not get hasty, now. I think we can work something out,” he purred against Mahanon’s neck. 

Mahanon let his head fall back so that Dorian had better access to it. His hips rolled against Dorian's navel as the man leaned down over him, bare skin running along bare skin. He groaned, biting down on his bottom lip to try and stay quiet for Dorian’s sake. Digging his hands into Dorian’s hair, he tugged him up for a kiss.  

Their mouths worked delicately together, brushes and fluttering touches while Dorian took back control. When Mahanon groaned, he gave in and kissed him with real feeling. Their teeth clashed for a moment, but Dorian tipped his head against the waifish hands that held it and found a comfortable spot for them both. They pulled back a moment, looked with smiles at one another, and fell back together. If Mahanon was still cold, he didn’t notice. 

“Shift a moment,” Dorian murmured in their kiss. His hands guided Mahanon’s movements, and in a quick exchange, Dorian was the one on his back, more completely on the bed. He dragged Mahanon on top of him by the hips.

Rocking backwards, Mahanon felt Dorian’s erection slotted against his ass. “Did we bring-” 

Dorian was already reaching over the side of the large, mobile cot they used as a bed while on the road to where his bag sat next to it. “Of course.” A chuckle was heard in his words and when he came back up, he held in his hand a small jar of lubricant. “Lean forward, amatus.” 

Mahanon leaned in, bracing his arms on either side of Dorian’s head. His knees were bent, digging into the bed, and pressed in on both sides of Dorian’s hips. Leaning forward put his ass up in a way that Dorian could easily reach. And he did, dipping two fingers in the jar and then circling his arm around to press the lubricant slicked fingers at Mahanon’s opening. Of course, Dorian had warmed it before touching down and the sensation of those fingers massaging a warm circle twirled Mahanon’s head. Dorian pushed a finger inside of him, drawing out a hissing breath. 

“Fuck, that’s good.” Mahanon held still, enjoying having Dorian slowly work him open. When Dorian slipped a second finger inside, the stretch was immediate and snapped Mahanon’s eyes open. He stared down at his lover’s eyes, brown almost fully eclipsed by the black pupil. Unable to help himself, Mahanon barked out a groan when Dorian’s fingers dragged along his prostate. That fear flashed in a cringe along Dorian’s face again and a flush went along Mahanon’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Pushing their lips together, Dorian swallowed the apology. “Don’t be. It’s...it’s fine.”

Still, a worry rested in Mahanon’s chest now. He tried to focus on the feeling of Dorian inside of him, but his mind kept floating back to keeping his pleasure quiet. “Dorian,” he whispered. “I need more.” He felt himself going soft and didn’t want Dorian to think he was no longer enjoying himself. Any time alone with the man was time he treasured; it was time he could forget about the world that they fought against. It was time he could spend with the man he had found himself hopelessly in love with and usually got to see the real side of. 

Without extracting himself from Mahanon, Dorian reached with his free hand for the jar. While still working his fingers pulsingly in and out of Mahanon, he dipped his others fingers in the lube. Then he reached around Mahanon again, this time slicking his own erection with the lubricant. “Up just a touch more, beautiful,” Dorian breathed out over Mahanon’s lips, catching a kiss as he planted his hands solidly on Mahanon’s ass.

Mahanon took the opportunity to lose his moan in Dorian’s mouth when the mage replaced his fingers with the head of his penis. Slowly, carefully, Dorian pushed his hips upward and eased inside of Mahanon. The stretch was quite a bit more than the fingers, Dorian having a comfortable girth that filled the elf up with a delicious touch of pain. 

Obscenities of pleasure were swallowed by Dorian as they fell into a smooth but quick rhythm. The change in position helped Mahanon and he could already feel blood pooling in his own penis once more. It ached to be touched, to be brought the same ecstasy that Mahanon’s ass was but he denied that amount of pleasure to himself. He wanted to keep pace with Dorian, to come at the same time as his lover. It was simple and familiar love making this night, but neither were going to hold out very long. 

“Amatus,” Dorian panted, breaking their mouths apart. “I’m close. Can I touch you?”

“Please, fuck yes.”

Dorian put his hand to Mahanon’s mouth. “Lick,” he ordered. 

Mahanon swathed his tongue over the expanse and wetted Dorian’s palm. When he seemed satisfied, Dorian shifted Mahanon up to more of a sitting position and palmed his shaft with the now spit-covered hand. The new position dug Dorian’s erection right against Mahanon’s prostate drawing out another cry of pleasure with only open air to eat it up this time. Dorian’s grip tightened slightly, but he kept his hips rocking and together they came in muffled cries. Mahanon had bought his arm to his mouth to help still the sounds of his orgasm. Dorian must have been practiced in staying quiet during sex because he didn't struggle with it now in the least.

When both men had spent themselves completely, tipping into the edges of too much, they fell apart from one another. The temporary beds the Inquisition provided were big enough for two, but just barely; Mahanon’s leg was draped over one of Dorian’s, and Dorian had an arm resting across Mahanon’s middle, hand on his thigh. They panted and slowly came back to themselves.

After long moments had passed and it seemed their breathing was back to normal, Mahanon tipped his head to the side, then his body, and wrapped around Dorian to cuddle. “Dorian,” he hummed. “Maybe we should-”

“Please, Mahanon. I can’t have that conversation right now. I want, no, I need to enjoy this right now. You and me, here. Please.” His voice was thick, straining to be heard and it tightened that feeling in Mahanon’s chest.

“Alright, another time then.” Letting the conversation fade away for now, Mahanon kept close to Dorian’s side. They were still a mess from the sex, but neither seemed to want to move to do a thing about it. 

Eventually, it was Dorian who gave in first. “Let me get us something to clean up with. I will be right back.” He carefully extracted himself from Mahanon's hold and ruffled through the packs. “I'm sure they've got water going by the fire,” he said as he pulled pants and his robe back on, forgoing the buckles.

Mahanon watched as he hesitated at the entrance of the tent. If he stepped out, it would likely be obvious what had happened, and it was early enough that Blackwall, Cassandra, and The Iron Bull were still awake and about camp. 

“I could get us some water,” Mahanon offered, pushing up from his reclined position.

“Don't be silly,” Dorian laughed with the fake tone that he used when he wanted to divert attention in a conversation. “I can handle a little water. I would just prefer not to deal with the damp for weeks.” 

Still, he was joking and playful. It was the side of Dorian that Mahanon had first fallen for, and a side that was as equally true of Dorian as any other part. So, Mahanon offered a smile and waved him off. “Hurry back. I miss you.” It was meant to be playful in return, but a seriousness dropped between them just as Dorian turned away that had Mahanon worrying again.

Fen’harel’s teeth, he messed up. Mahanon was supposed to be the stable one, the anchor of their relationship, but as the Inquisition grew and he had lost his clan, he'd become less dependable. Their dynamic worked when it was Dorian who needed the help and Mahanon was able to supply the support and the big romantic gestures (in private, of course). Now, though, Mahanon had been leaning on Dorian and using him as the balm for emotional wounds. What if they were both just too broken to be good for one another? The tight feeling in his chest exploded into panic, and suddenly the serpent in his gut came to life again. It curled and strangled like it had when he'd read about Clan Lavellan’s fate.

He needed to calm down before Dorian came back. He probably only had a few seconds until that happened. A few deep breaths cut down the strangled feeling; however, an ice storm broke out across Mahanon’s skin. He shivered involuntarily and snatched at the blankets on the bed. Wrapping up helped and it gave his hands something to do as he wound his fingers into the fabric. He tried to slow his breath again; he was not losing everything. He was fine, Dorian would stay, and everything would be fine. 

Mahanon was still struggling to breathe properly when Dorian came back in, warm wet cloths in hand. They locked eyes and Dorian rushed over, abandoning the cloths on the edge of the bed. His hands went to the elf’s face, cradling him with drawn, worried eyes.

“Mahanon, what's wrong?” 

He shook his head, pressing a hand into Dorian's chest to keep some distance. “Nothing, it's fine. It's… unfair when you're--when you have to,” he sucked in a gulp of air but it didn't seem to reach his lungs. Having Dorian watch his breakdown was making it worse; this was what he was worried about. He couldn't break down and leave Dorian to do the heavy emotional lifting. 

Grasping at the hand at his chest, Dorian looked concerned and like he was not going to give up on this. That put a shudder through Mahanon again. “Amatus, please. If I did something, if it was my refusal to talk earlier…”

Mahanon’s hands switched from pushing to gripping at the shirt front. “I’m just-” he choked on his words, nervousness rattling his brain. “I can't lose you, too. It's selfish and unfair, and I should understand how to care for you better, but look at me!” He wasn't sure when in all of this he had started crying. Dorian's face blurred though and shame burned stronger, urging his breakdown further. “I've been a mess and people are depending on me. I'll screw everything up just because I can't bear to be alone. I'll ruin you, too, and then lose you!”

“Shhhh shh shh, hush now, Mahanon. Come, take a breath, for me.” Dorian was moving, shifting his body behind Mahanon’s. He pulled him back and wrapped his arms around him, running his palm in circles over Mahanon’s heaving chest. “Take a breath, try to match mine. Focus on the breathing, amatus. Forget the rest.”

The touching helped. He could feel the deliberate and slightly exaggerated breaths that Dorian was taking and tried to follow those. He put a hand on Dorian's, the one running circles on his chest, and that helped. Slowly it all came back down, and Mahanon could think again beyond a haze of internal berating. 

“Can you reach the cloths?” Dorian's voice was soft at his ear.

Leaning forward carefully, Mahanon snagged them and handed one to Dorian. They were cooled now, but not freezing. Without words, the two cleaned themselves up and buried into the blankets. Mahanon pressed his back to Dorian's front, and they locked hands low on Mahanon's belly. 

“I think we need to talk when we get back to Skyhold,” Dorian said in a hush.

Mahanon nodded. He was too tired to cry again even though those words spelled out the end to him. So, instead he tried to memorize the feel of the arms around him, the warmth of the breath on his neck, and the soft sounds of Dorian when he slept. He would have memories to hold him at night when the real thing left him. 

  
  


After locating a couple of campsites and lost journal pages, the crew returned home. Whatever had drawn the Grey Wardens to the coast had moved on, and Mahanon could find no reason to linger. The encampment of The Blades of Hessarian would keep an eye on the coast for him now that he'd beaten their leader and headed the group. They would turn their attention elsewhere and hopefully discover more of the disappearance through information from Blackwall. The man had an idea of where to find some treaties, and Mahanon figured that Leliana might have some people to track those down.

During the meeting with his council, Mahanon learned most of his inner circle was back, though they hadn't been able to locate Sera yet. They assured him she still had two days before anyone should begin worrying though. He was given briefings on each team's reports, and then it was suggested everyone take the afternoon to recoup and think privately on the next move. They would meet again tomorrow afternoon.

That meant Mahanon was free. He could do as he wanted and that should have meant wanting to talk to Dorian. Except that thought put a stone on his lungs, so he instead headed for his quarters, barely glancing at anyone as he went. Up the stairs, the room was bathed in the bright light of the early afternoon, even poured through the closed doors and windows. Opening them up allowed for a nice breeze to blow through and took away the weeks of stagnant air. 

Mahanon knew that he needed to talk to Dorian, but he couldn't deal with the emotion of losing something else right now. He currently felt numb, and if something freshly opened the wounds, he wasn't sure how he'd feel. Dorian was the one he went to for support, but if he was causing the hurt, who could Mahanon lean on? He needed to be the face of the Inquisition now more than ever for the others, so he couldn’t possibly show such weakness to any of them. He was but an elf, he knew, but he was more than that to the world and he feared what would happen if they lost him now. People could be rather fragile, as he was learning of himself.

Falling back onto the bed, Mahanon’s thoughts shifted. They went to the reports, to the next move. While the Grey Wardens would be a major step, there was also tracking the source of the red lyrium. They'd tracked a few loads of it into the Emerald Graves, and Mahanon wanted to head a crew into the trickier areas where rifts were still pouring out demons. 

He hadn't meant to, but he fell asleep stretched out on the bed. It was nice to be in a real bed after weeks in the rain on the Storm Coast. He woke up to the fading light of sunset and felt a presence in the room with him. Sitting up slowly, Mahanon blinked sleep from his eyes and looked towards the chairs by the fireplace. 

Dorian was sat there, facing Mahanon as though he'd been watching him, but now he was dozing. He looked uncomfortable, like he hadn't moved in some time. Everything went still and a buzzing took over Mahanon’s thoughts. There was no avoiding the conversation, Dorian had seen to that. Getting up, Mahanon walked over to the chair quietly and shook Dorian awake. “Dor, hey you should get up before your back hates you,” he said softly.

The man came to leisurely, stretching and smiling up at Mahanon. The gentleness brought the serpent to life again in Mahanon’s gut. How could Dorian be so lax about what was to come?

“Amatus,” Dorian hummed and reached out for him.

Mahanon frowned, unsure of the game that was being played. So, he crossed his arms over his chest and took half a step back from the chair. “We need to talk.”

Puzzlement furrowed Dorian’s face and he let his arms drop back down. “Certainly, but I had hoped to do so with a touch less hostility.” He shifted in the chair to sit more comfortably and to take a more serious tone. “We are, afterall, working toward the benefit of us both.”

“I don't see how you leaving me benefits us both. I've pushed too far, ignoring the things you've had to deal with in regard to your past in favor of my issues so I understand leaving but,” Mahanon blurted out when he could no longer stand the dance to which he felt he was missing steps. The shocked look on Dorian’s face did little to assuage the fear.

Dorian rushed over, clasping his hands at Mahanon's biceps and shaking his head. “Mahanon, no! You've missed my intentions entirely.”

With a mouth like a gaping fish, Mahanon eventually struggled to the sound “oh” and proffered an embarrassed flinch, looking away from Dorian's eyes.

“I wanted to talk about our…” Dorian shuffled his feet and rubbed his thumbs over Mahanon’s arms from where his hands remained perched. “Our struggles I suppose. Mine with my past, and you with your newer fears.”

“You,” Mahanon worked through a few sentences in his head before he landed on something he wanted to actually say. “You want to make this work?”

It was Dorian’s turn to retreat. His hands stilled and his feet shuffled. “If you do, then yes. I meant what I had said before, that first night. I’m looking for more than just fun if you’re willing. I haven’t, well, I haven’t had an opportunity for that yet but I would like to have it.”

The confession loosened the anxiety that had buried itself in Mahanon and he felt lighter than he had in weeks. If he truly was not left alone in this world, perhaps he could make it through this Inquisition. Perhaps he could find a new place, at Dorian’s side. “We still have a lot to talk about, though, huh?” Mahanon tugged at Dorian, urging him towards the balcony. “Let’s chat out there. The air will do us some good.”

“We were outside for weeks, amatus. Must we really go out again so soon?” He gestured around the room. “Look, we have a perfectly lovely set up right inside. We spent a lot of money getting you a nice bed and all.”

“Just for a few minutes, ma vehnan?” Mahanon purred the elvish, knowing that Dorian went weak for it. 

With the fakest pout Mahanon had seen, Dorian gave in. “Fine, lead the way.” He let the elf drag him outside to the balcony that looked on more mountain than keep. Wrapping his arms around Mahanon from behind, they leaned on the railing and looked out over the darkening sky.

“So, where do we begin?” Mahanon let his head fall back on Dorian’s shoulder. He enjoyed the way he fit against the taller man.

Dorian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not quite sure, but how about I start with what I am worried about and then some questions from you will surely lead us to the why and how of it all.” He kissed the top of Mahanon’s head, ruffling the short silken locks. “You are a rather persistent one with the questions, I’m told.”

“Well,” Mahanon shrugged. “I wanted to get to know all of those I’d be working with.”

“And yet you managed to keep much of yourself hidden from us.” 

“Have I?”

He could feel Dorian’s nod though he couldn’t see it. “Certainly. I know of none of your past relationships, hardly knew if you were experienced with sex on our first night, though that was quickly answered. I know nothing of your parents. We know you were a hunter, but I’ve heard no stories of any of that.” Dorian chuckled. “In fact, I’m not even sure how old you are. For all I know you’re just a child, or you’re extremely old.”

Mahanon laughed. “Do I look a child or extremely old?”

“No, but that’s the things isn’t it? I don’t know either way which you’re closer to.”

“Would my age change anything for you? Or my involvement in other relationships?” Mahanon wasn’t sure how they’d gotten into his life when Dorian had suggested speaking of his own concerns, but he could ask questions as he was told he was good at.

Dorian chuckled and pressed a kiss to Mahanon’s cheek. “Sort of, yes. I’m curious about your experiences as I have not had any. I fear that I will ruin things by falling back into old habits. As I could not have a  _ real _ relationship with a man in Tevinter, I was often the other person or someone to run to during hard times. I’m thirty years old and I hadn’t had any hope to expect something more, not like now with you.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, squeezing Mahanon a little tighter. “I suppose I was hoping you had some idea of how this is all supposed to work.”

“Well, I’m...I don’t know, twenty six or so I suppose. We don’t much keep track of age so much as we keep track of ability.” Mahanon nuzzled back against Dorian as he spoke. “And I had a couple of relationships, one with a woman and two others with men. All from my Clan, so I know how the Dalish handle those things.”

“Good as anything, isn’t it? Clearly they’re not handling as poorly as Tevinter.”

Mahanon laughed. “Well, there is some expectation to reproduce, but that doesn’t always have to come with a set partner. Rianen and I were talking about having children with a couple of women who had been together for years. We all got along and they desperately wanted some children.”

Dorian made a humming noise. “So you would have sex with them but remain with your partner, Rianen?”

“Yes. They would keep the children, and if Rianen and I decided we wanted children, we could always approach the couple again or find another woman willing to carry for us.” Mahanon turned around in Dorian’s arms, seeking his face. “I don’t know that we were like other Clans, but it made sense to us at least. We needed children to keep the Clan going, but no one wanted to deny a couple their love.”

“That’s...impossibly sweet, Mahanon.” He put his forehead to Mahanon’s. “I wonder how different my life might be if Tevinter had that attitude.”

“Well, you likely wouldn’t have met me,” Mahanon said putting a light kiss to Dorian’s lips.

“Ah,” Dorian kissed him more completely. “And that would be a terrible thing, amatus. I suppose I should be thanking Tevinter for their bigotry now.” He chuckled and kissed Mahanon again. “It will take time for me to overcome my engrained fears of public opinion in regard to our relationship, but I will learn.”

Mahanon nodded. “Is there anything I can do to make it easier for you?”

“Just keep doing what comes naturally to you, and I will let you know if anything is too much for me. I’d rather push my boundaries than try to keep my fear under control.”

“Alright, deal. Now, will you take me to bed and fuck me where I can be loud about appreciating you?”

Dorian grinned and snickered. “As you wish, amatus.”

 


	3. And then, if we are true to plan,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon plans some down time (Wicked Grace) with the group, after some time alone (sex) with Dorian. The boys deal with some feelings and new public displays of affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The card game scene.... this isn't that, but almost. More smut and then a bunch of fluff and feelings. While I make up a lot about the Lavellan Clan, things about the vallaslin came from the dragon age wiki. Also, the further this goes on, the more spoilers sort of get dragged in, though in an understated way. I've finished the game finally, so this will likely end post-trespasser.

To Mahanon’s strong relief, Sera turned up in Skyhold the morning of the third day just as Mahanon was ready to send out half of his military to find her. She was a bit of a mess, but the shit eating grin and the man in chains behind her made it seem worth it. Sera and her friends had tracked down a Venatori supporter, a Tevinter Altus who had information about some of the men Dorian had mentioned wanting to track down. 

“You brought him all the way back here?” Cullen asked exasperatedly. 

The advisors and Mahanon’s inner circle were all gathered in Josephine's office, per his request. He wanted to get a feel for things and that meant speaking with all of them. Easier all at once, and honestly a bit amusing. Mahanon was leaned against a small bit of wall by the fireplace. Josephine was perched behind her desk, Leliana sat on a corner of it despite protests. Bull, Blackwall, and Cassandra were humorously squished together on the couch facing the fire and Mahanon. Cullen stood on the other side of the fireplace, arms folded heavily over his chest. Varric was on a lounge chair and Sera had somehow managed to perch herself atop the back of it, feet dangling over Varric’s shoulders. How he put up with her was anyone's guess. Solas sulked in a back corner, and Cole hovered around making unintelligible sounds as he tried to keep quiet. Then Dorian. He was sat in the other chair, looking as regal as a king in a black and gold outfit and near openly staring at Mahanon. What a clan they were, Mahanon thought and a cringe touched his lips.

“Well he wasn't answerin any of my questions, no matter how many little needles his hands were, well, figured someone like sour face there,” Sera jabbed a finger at Cassandra, “could get him sayin somethin.” 

Dorian must have seen Mahanon’s cringe as he raised a questioning eyebrow. The elf shook his head slightly and then turned to the conversation. “The Iron Bull might have fun getting some answers, actually.” Mahanon nodded to him. “What do you think?”

Sera snorted a giggle. “You're an odd duck, Inqy. Settin’ up a qunari to question a 'Vint while you,” she was reduced to giggles and half words. “Doin him...an elf and a…” 

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise that did nothing to stop Sera.

Mahanon took in a deep, settling breath, hoping Sera’s antics would not set off Dorian. Though the others often looked to Mahanon for clarification on Sera’s and Cole’s meanings, it seemed obvious where she was going with this.

“I'll handle the questions, Boss. Don't worry,” Bull said interrupting the giggle fit.

“Thank you, Bull.” Mahanon addressed the group, getting more personalized accounts and opinions on the tasks they'd all returned from. He shared his own information as well, leaning on Blackwall to get them more details. After what seemed hours, Mahanon went to their last topic of the afternoon.

“Do you have the Emerald Graves reports?” 

Josephine nodded. “Yes, Inquisitor. It seems as though it is the heaviest trafficked area for red lyrium thus far. Perhaps there is something bigger going on there.”

“My scouts are searching the area, but they have had trouble with some skirmishers,” Leliana added. “Freemen of the Dales and some group following a man named Fairbanks. The area is full of problems.”

“Solutions?” Mahanon shifted his feet, rubbing his hand along the back of one of his long ears. A few thoughtful noises sounded, but it was quiet for a long moment. “If no one has a better plan, I'm figuring I’ll drag some of you along and handle it myself.” 

The Iron Bull and Dorian laughed, his Advisors all grumbled, and Varric spoke up, “Count me in, your Inquistorialness.”

“Alright, it's settled then.” Mahanon hadn't been in a teasing mood for some time, but the weight of grief was slowly receding and he missed what he had with  _ this _ particular clan. “Varric and I will take on the Emerald Graves together.” Mahanon waved at the dwarf and pushed off the wall as though to set out right away.

“You can't be serious,” Cullen gasped out, reaching out to stop Mahanon from leaving. The others started in on fussing, too.

Mahanon smirked, and then he out right laughed. It had been weeks since he'd had a real laugh. “No, Commander, I'm not serious. Has it really been so long since I made a joke?” He chuckled again, settling back against the wall. The warmth of the fire felt good, but the warmth settling in the room from the others felt better.

“Yes, it has,” said Cassandra as she smiled at him. 

He locked eyes with her and they had a moment's understanding. Mahanon was lucky to count her as his closest friend. Suddenly, he remembered something Dorian had remarked on, about not knowing Mahanon. “I think we should have a night off. Cullen, Josephine, no arguments and you're expected to attend. Kick everyone out of The Herald’s Rest because the Herald is claiming it tonight.” This time when he started to walk away, he meant it. “Dorian, I have a book for you.” He threw out the loosely veiled excuse with a risk and a crooked finger.

Whatever trepidation Dorian had, he didn't let it stop him from gracefully unfolding himself from the chair and following after Mahanon in a swoosh of beautiful black and gold robes. Mahanon watched with a sidelong glance, and fuck, but the mage was a glory to behold. Mahanon thought he could write mythologies about the man, deify him in literature.

Once in the Inquisitor’s quarters, Mahanon pulled Dorian to him and locked lips with him as though he was the air Mahanon needed to live. He sought the connection to gain strength for the conversation he was to have, but he wanted to be careful not to let this go too far. At least not until they'd spoken. So, he canted his hips back when Dorian tried to pull them closer together. Breaking contact with his lips, Mahanon whispered over the glistening, soft flesh. “I need to talk about something first, boundaries and things, for tonight,” he said drawing out small kisses in between his words.

He felt Dorian tense beneath him, so he smoothed his hands over the man's arms. “Nothing bad, I promise. I want to make sure you're comfortable tonight at our little gathering, that's all.”

Dorian nodded and walked Mahanon backwards to the bed. “Are you opposed to having this conversation with fewer clothes, sprawled together on your bed.”

With a chuckle, Mahanon shook his head. “I am not opposed, so long as we talk before anything else.”

Echoing the elf’s laugh, Dorian put a hand over his heart and flourished a little bow. “I swear it shall be so, Lord Inquisitor. As you command.”

Mahanon could almost feel his own pupils blow wide at the gesture and the words. “Mm. Then I command you take those amazing robes off, carefully, slowly, and listen while I talk.” Mahanon kicked his shoes off, slipped out from the coat he wore and climbed languidly back onto the bed. He stretched out at the headboard and watched Dorian follow his orders. 

He knew the mage went without small clothes at times, but he had not expected it now. The black and gold robes swept down over the exquisitely tan shoulders, slide past his ribs and cut hips, down past his thick thighs, and billowed out on the floor like something praying at Dorian's feet. It left the man completely naked and preening. It would take all of Mahanon’s self control not to jump him immediately. 

“Is this to your pleasure, my Lord?” Dorian drawled the honorific in that rolling accent of his and it sent chills down Mahanon’s spine.

“Oh, yes my sweet, sweet Altus. It is very much to my pleasure.” Mahanon grinned seeing Dorian’s own eyes blown out already. “But this bed is awfully cold with just me in it.”

“Allow me to fix that for you.” Dorian climbed up the length of the bed on all fours, their eyes never straying from one another. He crawled right up Mahanon’s lap before twisting so that he tested on his back between the smaller man’s legs. Dorian’s head rested on Mahanon's chest, and suddenly the elf felt too clothed.

“Sit up a moment,” he murmured, the echo of their last time together not missed by either.

Dorian complied, making room for Mahanon to slip out of his shirt. At the touch of Mahanon’s fingers on Dorian’s shoulders, urging him back, he went. They sat together in silence for a few moments until Dorian shivered. Then, blankets were pulled up and conversation began.

“I wanted to know how comfortable you are in front of the others,” Mahanon tried.

“Am I not always one of grace and poise?” Dorian teased back, wiggling playfully in Mahanon’s hold.

Mahanon snorted. “Right. Remember, I've seen you stumbling around in the mornings, hair a mess and eyes smudged black.”

Dorian gasped pretentiously. “I beg your absolute apology. I do  _ not _ stumble.”

A disbelieving noise hummed from Mahanon. “What sort of affection may I show tonight?”

A sly smirk grew over Dorian's face as he turned to look at Mahanon. “All sorts, especially if you lose more of those clothes.”

Mahanon’s face darkened slightly and his muscles tensed. He flexed his hands as he took in a deep breath. “Please, vhenan. Talk with me. I want...I need to know what your boundaries are so I do not overstep. I will not cause you harm unknowingly.”

The look and the tone must have spoken to his seriousness because Dorian nodded and sunk back down. His fingers ran designs over Mahanon’s arms where they sat wrapped around Dorian's chest. “Alright. I apologize, but this sort of thing makes me…” he shook his head a little.

“Nervous?” Mahanon suggested.

“Quite.” He took a deep breath. “But I understand it must happen. So, I am not sure. Perhaps we could use a sort of, I don't know, safe word or gesture if things become too much?” 

“You're familiar with safe words?”

Somehow Dorian managed to sound more scandalized than Mahanon. “ _ You _ are? That surprised me more than myself knowing it.” Dorian hummed. “Perhaps there is an untapped part of this relationship we have been unnecessarily avoiding.”

Mahanon was nearly lost to the thought, but he shook it from his head. “Later,” he said with a warning to his voice. “So, what is your safe word, Dorian?”

“I...should like a new one, actually.”

Pressing a kiss to Dorian’s temple, Mahanon stayed quietly waiting. 

“Kevesh,” Dorian said finally. “It's hard for me to translate, but it's used as a sort of frustration. I tend to get right to the point when swearing though.”

“What? You?” Mahanon’s voice pitched upward and he added a little gasp. “Let's see what Tevene I've picked up since being in your presence-”

“Mahanon,” Dorian growled, smacking his arm lightly.

“There's kaffas, vishante kaffas, fasta vass… ah, yes, how about venhedis? Still unsure on that translation.” Mahanon could feel Dorian squirming in his arms and he chuckled. “Would you like to hear my favorite?”

“Kaffas, I think you've said them all.”

“Amatus,” Mahanon whispered in Dorian’s ear. That brought a shiver through Dorian and a keening noise that shot straight through Mahanon. Lips still brushing along the shell of Dorian's ear, he started to whisper in Elvish, the bit he knew. Though he was never going to be a Keeper, even before the loss of the Clan, Mahanon had learned as much of his culture as he could, going so far as to hide in trees to eavesdrop on lessons meant for the First and Second only. It was why he had been sent to the Chantry.

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian muttered as he twisted in Mahanon’s arms. In a moment he was straddling Mahanon’s legs, grasping his face between his hands.

Mahanon, for his part, just smiled then leaned in to kiss the other man. “What does that mean?”

“Hmm?” Dorian was lost in the kiss, smothering whatever clarification Mahanon could have made to his question. When he pulled back, he grinned. “You will be the death of me.” 

Mahanon rolled his hips against Dorian’s. “Hopefully not. I have plans to keep you around for a long, long time.” The keening sound from the mage resounded through the room again and Mahanon nearly lost himself right then and there. “Dor, think we could-”

“Yes, please. Yes!” Dorian moved off of Mahanon’s lap and went to work on the elf’s pants, unlacing the front to make it easy to pull them down. Mahanon was happy to let him do it, but he had some specific plans for this afternoon’s endeavors. 

Disrobed, Mahanon reached over to the little stand he had collected to keep their personal items close at hand. He pulled out a jar of lubrication and held it close. “I liked you straddled there, over me. I’d like to have you that way.”

Dorian nodded his agreement and climbed back on top. “Here, let me.” 

He reached his fingers towards the jar and Mahanon let him dip in. While Dorian made quick work of wetting himself, Mahanon slicked his already hard erection with a coating, a little extra on the head. They both wiped their hands on the sheets and then Dorian was slotting himself comfortably on Mahanon’s hips. The elf kept a hand on his penis, aligning it carefully as the human sank slowly, inch by tantalizing inch, until he bottomed out on Mahanon. They both groaned and sat still for a moment. Dorian didn’t often take much preparation, finding that when he was the one bottoming he liked to get right to it, enjoying the slight pain of the immediate and consuming stretch.

“Creators, Dorian, you feel amazing.” Mahanon put his lips to Dorian’s exposed collarbone, nipping and kissing along its length. His hands wrapped around to run along the taut corded muscle. Whoever had decided that his parents would create wonderful offspring couldn’t have been more right; Dorian was perfection in Mahanon’s eyes and underneath his hands. 

Dorian chuffed at the feel of Mahanon’s lips and rolled his hips down hard. “I want to be perfect for you,” he hummed, his own hands pressed against the elf’s chest, dragging his nails down the slender, solid build. 

Mahanon’s hands went down to Dorian’s hips, gripping them tightly as he thrust up faster. “Fuck, you are, vhenan. You’re absolutely perfect.” He was panting heavier now as they worked hard and faster together, the sound of skin connecting with skin echoing in the large, open room. “You’re perfect, Dorian. Don’t change a fucking thing, okay? Please, don’t.”

“I won’t,” Dorian breathed out, pulling himself closer to Mahanon, pressing his lips to his neck. 

Mahanon felt the sobs as they racked Dorian’s body and he slowed the thrusts as his hands went to Dorian’s face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, fuck. Don’t stop, please. Keep-” Dorian cried out as he tightened his thighs around Mahanon’s hips and dug his hips down deeper. 

Listening to his words, Mahanon let one hand fall away to hold his hips again, regaining his pace and feeling himself getting closer. The other hand he kept at Dorian’s face, helping to keep their eyes locked as he murmured praise to the man. “You’re such a good boy, Dorian. So perfect for me. I can’t believe,” he sucked in a breath as he tightened his stomach to stop himself from spilling over too soon. “Can’t believe how perfect you are and all mine.”

Dorian’s whole body tightened around Mahanon when he came, crying out something in Tevene that Mahanon didn’t understand. Following after, Mahanon spent himself inside of Dorian, his own ecstasy released with a rumbling moan. 

They stayed clinging together as they languidly came back to themselves. Mahanon felt Dorian shifting his legs to keep a more comfortable position without moving away. In return, Mahanon slid down a bit in the bed and ran his hands up and down the expanse of Dorian’s bare back, slick with sweat and warm to the touch.

“Dorian?” Mahanon’s voice was soft but easily heard alone in the large room.

“Mm?” Dorian's voice, though just a murmur, was thick from the crying.

Mahanon wasn't sure what to ask. He wanted to know if Dorian was alright, but that seemed answered with a yes considering their current state. He wanted to know if he'd done something wrong, or right. He just didn't know how to ask without possibly upsetting the man.

However, he didn't have to ask. As good as he ever was, Dorian answered the unasked. “You said some things that, well they really struck me. In a good way. I've dealt so much with people trying to change me, and I feared that you would seek that out tonight. But...well.”

Mahanon out his lips to Dorian's hair as he spoke, needing the added contact. “I do not wish you to change at all. Ever. It is why I asked what  _ you _ are comfortable with tonight, not what I wanted.”

“What  _ do _ you want, amatus?”

He took a deep breath, the questions turned on him and catching him a bit unprepared. “I am an open person with my affection and I would be closer physically with you. If it were comfortable to you.”

“In public.”

“Yes, which is why I asked.”

Dorian nodded, his fingers coming up to dance along his bottom lip. Mahanon had seen him do this on a few occasions where he had to think things out. He gave the man time, lazily drawing patterns across his back as he awaited a response.

“What sort of physical affection?”

Again, Mahanon was caught unaware. He'd never had to explain such natural actions before. “I suppose things like putting my hand on your arm while we sat close. Leaning against you while we stand next to one another.” He thought a moment more. “Playing with your hair perhaps. I'll assume stealing a kiss would be too much this soon,” he chuckled.

“Honestly, likely. But you may take one now, if you'd wish,” Dorian grinned and leaned in halfway making Mahanon complete the rest of the movement.

They lost themselves to indulgent, unhurried kissing. Hands tangled in hair and breath lost itself between one mouth and the next. The entire world slipped away and that moment was held in time for an eternity and yet a second. 

“I-” Mahanon stopped himself for a second time. Though they'd all but spoken it, he was not ready to see Dorian retreat if those three words were too much. “Thank you.”

Dorian crinkled his eyebrows. “Whatever for?”

“This, and everything. I've been struggling with things, but you've stayed.” Mahanon felt chilled as the heat from sex was wearing away.

“Of course I did.” Dorian must have noticed the chill because he delicately extracted himself from Mahanon's hold and went to the back closet area where a barrel of water was kept. When he came back out with a bowl, heated by his magic, he nodded to the drawer. “Fetch us a cloth, would you handsome? Then we can get ready for your little get together.”

 

The sun was sinking low in the sky, nearly lost behind the mountains by the time The Herald's Rest had been cleared out. The advisors and inner circle were gathering, trickling in with whomever they came across on their way over. Mahanon and Dorian had already claimed seats next to each other at the tables they'd shoved together for the group. It was set up in front of the fireplace where stools usually sat for those who wanted to listen to Maryden.

Tentatively, Mahanon danced his fingers over the table top and let them press gently at Dorian's wrist which sat on the table as he twisted the stem of a wine glass between his fingers. The mage glanced over to him and proferred half a smile. The bar was a lot quieter than when filled with people and Mahanon started to question his decision as nervousness fluttered in his stomach. Mahanon had been with the group, or pieces of it, for Inquisition business mostly. Of course he'd gotten to know them individually, but that was usually two or three at a time, not the whole damned group. He expected tonight would be challenging and started to wish they had a dragon to slay instead. 

“Amatus,” Dorian leaned over whispering in his ear when the door banged open admitting a loud Sera, Varric, and Blackwall. “You look as nervous as I feel.”

Mahanon chuckled. “I was just rethinking this decision. Maybe we could go out dragon hunting instead?”

For as large as he was, The Iron Bull had entered quietly and his voice behind them surprised Mahanon into a startled jump in his seat. “Dragon hunting sounds good, boss!”

“Sweet Sylaise, Bull. I didn't see you come in.”

The qunari laughed loud and deeply. “I was here first, back in that chair behind everything. Got a good view of stuff from there.”

Mahanon chuckled, “And a good hiding place apparently.”

Bull smacked him on the back good naturedly, but it sent the elf forward in his chair and knocked a bit of wind out of him. He wheezed another chuckle and his fingers tightened around Dorian's wrist. For his part, Dorian snorted and flipped his hand over to seek out Mahanon's fingers, entwining them. The elf felt his heart stutter, and he looked at Dorian with a smile. The Tevinter seemed collected with his perfect posture and half a smirk tucked in the left side of his lips, but Mahanon could read the fear that darkened his eyes. He loosened his fingers allowing the shemlan a way out, but Dorian merely tightened his grip to keep his hand there. So, Mahanon held his hand and smiled down at his lap.

“Will we be playing Wicked Grace tonight?” Josephine asked as she walked towards them with Leliana on her heels. 

“I don't see why not, but I'm starting with a couple drinks first,” Mahanon replied. 

Leliana grinned. “Ah, all the better for soothing the hurt when Josie takes everyone's money.”

Many drinks later, everyone was deeply involved in losing to Josephine. At the next end of a  round, they paused for refills and the stories began. Glancing at Dorian, Mahanon leaned over a bit. The mage looked over too and smiled, shifting barely an inch towards him. It was enough of a go that Mahanon latched on and moved his chair closer. He put their shoulders together and settled his hand on Dorian's thigh as they listened to Cassandra tell the story of her saving Justinia from the dragon, after much prompting from everyone else. Mahanon ran his thumb in lazy circles over the soft fabric of the pants Dorian wore and let his head rest against the man's shoulder. Dorian seemed to be doing well with it, and when no one seemed to pay it much mind, Dorian draped an arm over Mahanon's shoulders.

“I think I would have run away,” laughed Josephine when Cassandra finished. 

“I ran away from a nug once,” Mahanon snickered. “I mean, we didn't know it was a nug at the time.”

The Iron Bull pushed a mug of something towards him. “Okay, your turn for a story then, boss.”

“Alright,” Mahanon lifted his head but Dorian kept him close. Mahanon gave his leg a squeeze for support. “I um.” He cast a glance around, lingering on Sera then Solas. “I could tell you about my coming of age and receiving my vallaslin.” Mahanon found he wanted to talk about his clan, to remember them even as he missed them.

“Please do,” Solas said, taking Mahanon by surprise. 

Dorian ran his hand up and down Mahanon’s bicep. The mage released a bit of warm magic with it, flooding Mahanon's system with comfort. “I was trained early on to be a hunter, so I connected deeply with Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt. I was  _ supposed _ to be out there all on my own, but Lellanon followed me and-” Mahanon coughed lightly and a blush crept over his cheeks as he looked at Dorian, having forgotten where some of this story went. “Well, I was out there for nearly a week tracking a Great Bear.”

Dorian chuckled and rubbed his back. “You don't have to hold back on my account, amatus.”

Mahanon gave a lighthearted glare, but then took a breath and settled. He had not expected Dorian to be as relaxed as he was, holding himself together with sarcasm and dry wit as usual. The contact was unexpected but welcome. He looked over, watching for any tell that Dorian was uncomfortable; he looked as cool as ever.

“Right. So, I thought I was alone the first day.” Mahanon fell easily into the story from there, sharing vague details of his double coming of age tales. He told of taking down the bear on his own, cleaning the kill and preparing it for the journey home, and mentioned briefly the field of flowers with Lellanon. “When the Keeper puts the vallaslin on, you are not to make a sound. Any sign of pain is a sign that you are not ready for adulthood and they will stop the ceremony. The whole Clan gathers to watch, then we have a celebration.”

“And that's… blood?” Sera scrunched her nose as she leaned across the table and poked at the marking of Andruil. “Your blood?”

Mahanon swatted her hand away. “Yes, among other things. I preferred it black, so there is onyx mixed in, animal fat to bind it, and soot for color and texture.” 

Sera made a cringing face again.

“How old were you?” Bull asked.

Mahanon shrugged. “Sixteen, seventeen. I was younger than most, but Keeper Deshanna said I was ready.” He smiled. “She is-” he choked on the words. “Was, um, a great Keeper. Always knew what each of us needed.” He looked down, fighting emotions away. This wasn't supposed to take this turn. He pulled his head up and smiled, finding that Dorian had slipped his hand down to entwine with his under the table.

“I nearly got a tattoo once,” Cassandra said, coming to Mahanon's rescue. “Anthony and I were going to get matching dragon tattoos.” She took on a far away smile and Mahanon had to wonder if she'd talked to any of the others about her brother before.

“You?” Cullen’s face drew up in surprise. 

“Yes, me. Is that so hard to believe?” Cassandra stared back defensively.

With a laugh, Cullen shook his head. “I'm not sure what to expect from this group anymore. Like, when did Lavellan and Dorian, uh…?”

Mahanon felt Dorian stiffen at this too-immediate attention turned to them. The elf sat up a little further, drawing his shoulder from Dorian's as looks came their way. He squeezed Dorian’s leg before drawing his hand away from his leg as well, giving an uncomfortable cough. 

“Longer than you'd think,” The Iron Bull snorted. “They've been eye fucking each other since the damned Chantry rift.” 

“Bull-” Mahanon tried to warn.

“And who could resist this perfection?” Dorian threw out with a wink, pulling Mahanon back over to him. It was the fake tone again and it burned through Mahanon's chest. He didn't put his own arm around Dorian; however, he didn't move away either. 

Sera made a face at that and Mahanon had to laugh. Dorian hook his head, “You don’t count.”

“I’d certainly have you a few times,” Bull announced and winked. With one eye. 

Mahanon let out a noise like a growl and tipped his head to Dorian’s shoulder. He could feel a ripple of magic run through the mage and he grew nervous that the man was not comfortable with where it was all going. Mahanon was at a loss though; he wasn’t sure how to derail this train, and Dorian’s prideful defense mechanism wasn’t helping either of them. “I’ll be taking him back to my room now, thank you all.” The elf stood up, grinning at The Iron Bull while feeling nervousness flood his system with a burst of heat to match the warmth of magic that flowed through Dorian. He could feel the warmth of it rolling off of the Tevinter’s bronze skin. 

Dorian pulled up with him, keeping some distance while he straightened his clothes. “I suppose it  _ is _ getting late, and it’s not as though I have much money left to throw at Josephine,” Dorian chuckled. 

Josephine sighed. “I suppose I should give you all break. It’s awfully rude to make your friends destitute in one sitting.”

“We’ll have a rematch, Ruffles, so keep hold of your winnings.” Varric had gotten up as well and was headed for the bar. “Hey, Tiny, come have another few drinks with me.” At that, everyone began moving. Dorian and Mahanon were able to more easily slip off in the chaos of sudden action, and for that the elf was thankful. 

Outside the wind rippled through the courtyard, whistling over the training yard and putting a chill right through Mahanon’s thin clothing. He shivered, but didn’t move to draw closer to Dorian. He wasn’t certain what might set the man off at this point, and he didn’t actually care to find out. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and looked up to the sky, eyes dancing across the stars to the constellations he was familiar with. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dorian breathed out. The courtyard carried his voice in the quiet of the night time, a burst of laughter from the tavern chasing after them. 

“Mm, I miss it all sometimes,” Mahanon said pausing and pointing towards a particular group of stars. “See those ones?”

Dorian stood closer, their shoulders brushing. “Solium?”

Mahanon chuckled. “I suppose so. I know it as Elgar’nan.”

“Isn’t that the name of your head god?” Dorian’s arm slipped around Mahanon’s waist, his hand curving gently over his hip. 

“Mhm. Eldest of the sun,” Mahanon interpreted. “My Clan followed the constellation for a time, travelling with it’s movements during a particularly bad sickness the halla fell under. We hoped his guidance would help them along.” He didn’t know why he was telling Dorian this; the man was Andrastian and likely thought what Mahanon spoke of as drivel at best and blasphemy at worst. 

Really, Mahanon should have stopped underestimating him though. Dorian let a burst of magic wash over them as they started walking again, heat chasing away the mountain chill. “And did it?”

“I…” He thought back, to the grove they found along a winding river in the Free Marches. There the halla and Clan rested, birthed new generations, and settled for some time. “Yes, I think so. We found a place to stay for a while. It was the longest we stayed anywhere, in fact, and we only moved on when a large group of humans trekked through. They were searching for some lost relic, I think. Keeper Deshanna didn’t want any trouble with them, so we left the area a few days after they arrived.” 

Dorian’s hand, the one on Mahanon’s hip, tightened its grip slightly. “You must miss them terribly. For what little it is worth, I am sorry that they are gone.”

Mahanon turned, pressing up to Dorian’s chest. “It means more than you would know, Dorian. Thank you.” He had to go up on his toes to reach Dorian’s lips, and his hands perched on the man’s biceps to help keep steady.

The kiss was warm, but short. Dorian broke and pulled away. “Could we retire to your quarters? I’m feeling rather exposed.”

“Of course,” Mahanon said and stepped away a bit. “Some of them are not very subtle. I hope they didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“Ah,” Dorian breathed out dismissively. “They’re not the ones who worry me so much. That brute of a Qunari sees no ulterior motive behind my feelings, and the others have a politeness some of these Orlesian nobles and Fereldan warriors you’ve taken in lack. The untamed masses would see only the evil Tevinter Magister, of which I am not, who wants to get close to the Inquisitor and destroy everything from the inside.” 

Mahanon was quiet as they made their way up the stairs and through the long hallway of the throne room. He pulled open his chamber door and let Dorian enter first. Once they were upstairs, a slight awkwardness set in. They’d certainly stayed some nights together, but that was mostly during time on the road or after sex. Crossing into the new territory both excited and worried Mahanon; he half expected Dorian to flee. As it was, the man took up pacing, playing distracted by lifting some statuette from Mahanon’s desk and turning it over in his hands. Mahanon sat on the end of his bed and watched, quietly for a moment.

“Will you stay with me tonight? I understand if you’d prefer not to have to leave at a time when others would see,” Mahanon said giving him an out if he needed it.

Dorian spun, setting the statuette down before crossing the room in hurried steps. He crouched between Mahanon’s legs and took his face between his hands. “I will stay, amatus. Though I worry what will be said, I would not deny you of my wonderful presence,” he grinned.

Narrowing his eyes but smiling, Mahanon put his hands along Dorian’s which were still on his face. “I know it’s easy for me to say and harder for you to actually do, but forget them. Their talk does not change what I think of you, what I  _ know _ of you.”

“And what is that?” Dorian had pressed closer, his breath on Mahanon’s lips as he guided the elf backwards on the bed. “What do you know of me, Mahanon?”

Mahanon brushed kisses across Dorian’s lips before answering. “That you’re a good man. That you would change the world if you could.” Lying back completely, he pulled Dorian down with him and curled up against him. “I know that you love me.” The word nearly stuck in his throat, but he wanted to say it. He wanted to Dorian to know without question. “I love you, Dorian.”

“And I you, amatus.”


	4. Our statures touch the skies—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon, Dorian, and some of the team head off to the Emerald Graves chasing red lyrium trade lines. A slip of judgement has someone wounded, a few more confessions, and a fun decision by the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence in this chapter. I'm not great at writing fight scenes, but it's something I'm working on bettering myself on. Also, the arrow knowledge came from the internet, so hopefully it's accurate! (Smut next chapter, but I gave ya'll some makeouts in this one).

Cullen had worked with Lelianna and gotten some direction on where to find the lyrium shipments for the Red Templars. That meant another expedition lead by Mahanon. Based on the reports coming from the Emerald Graves, Mahanon decided a slightly larger group would be needed for this particular outing, so he took with him Dorian, The Iron Bull, Cassandra, Varric, and Cole. Blackwall had requested to come along, but Mahanon sent him out with Sera to make use of the Warden Treaties that they’d come across. The man put up minimal fuss, likely because he and Sera somehow managed to get along splendidly. Mahanon still couldn’t make heads or tails of that friendship, but he used it to his advantage a time or two.

“Why is this forest so hilly?” Varric’s voice rang out through the large grove and a group of dark furred nugs took off towards a tree away from Mahanon’s group.

Mahanon just chuckled, shaking his head as he trudged up the hill towards an open stone plaza. Harding had marked it on his map as a possible location for a camp. It was high enough up that they’d be able to see anyone daring to approach. Once his smaller team set up and scouted, they’d send word for a small scout group to create a more solid presence. Hopefully the trail they thought the templars were using was as close as it seemed so that they could put an end to this route at least. 

“You’d complain about a paved road if it had a slight incline,” Cassandra shot back at the dwarf.

The Iron Bull roared out a laugh. “See, I thought he’d complain about the trees first.”

“I’m just surprised he’s not complaining about the grass. Or the air,” Dorian chimed in. 

Mahanon shook his head as the banter continued. He crested the top of the hill and pulled his red hart to a halt still in the grass. The creature really didn’t like the rough feel of the stone, and really Mahanon felt the same way. Having spent so much of his life in the woods, off of the shemlan buildings, he’d rather gotten used to the wilds. Mahanon whispered to the hart in elven, running his fingers down the beasts long neck and patting it on the thick shoulder. He could hear the others chattering away still, but he paid them little mind as he took in the smells and sounds of the forest. His fingers were quick and steady on the saddle’s buckles and he soon had the hart set to roam around their little camp; she never strayed far. He watched her canter off into the high grasses and begin to graze, a smile touching his lips. Her happy call set his mid, and Mahanon sat on the edge of the pavillion to slip his shoes off. Barefooted, the elf walked a few paces into the grass and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as a breeze washed over the area and over him. This was just the sort of place that his clan would settle-- 

“Amatus,” Dorian purred. 

The voice was nearly at his ear, breath caressing his skin. It made Mahanon startle. Dorian’s hands found his waist and he swore the mage put a jolt of electricity in the touch. Of course, Mahanon often felt that feeling when Dorian was near. “Mm, it’s nice out,” he hummed and tried slowly leaning back into Dorian’s chest.

The mage let him, wrapping his arms around Mahanon’s upper body. There was still an apprehension in the way Dorian’s arms sat, not quite the lax and comfortable hold he used in private, but Mahanon allowed himself to enjoy this. He hoped his own easy state would help soothe the Tevinter’s troubled mind. Certainly none of their companions would have anything negative to say; well, Cassandra might but that was just how she was. 

“I forget that you did not live in cities. This must be more to your liking than that hulking stone of Skyhold.” Dorian brushed his chin over Mahanon’s head coming to rest on one side, cheek pressed to Mahanon’s cheek. 

The beautifully curled mustache tickled at Mahanon’s bare cheek, but he didn’t care to move away from the feeling. He just grinned and nodded. “Yes, it is. I miss this.”

“I suppose I can see the appeal. It is rather beautiful, even if I do prefer a comfortable home with the most up-to-date fashions.”

Mahanon snorted. “You’re too pretty for your own good, sometimes. But, whatever home you settle on, you’ll have to make sure it has a large garden just for me.” Mahanon’s hands were folded over Dorian’s and he nuzzled against his face, inhaling the rich scent of him that nestled at the pulsepoint on his neck. 

“That is definitely something I can see to.” Dorian nipped his ear. “Also, I’m just the right amount of pretty.”

“You really are.” With a laugh, Mahanon danced his fingers over Dorian’s arms. “We should probably help the others set up camp.” He started to pull away, to turn up toward camp and make his way off to be helpful.

Dorian didn’t let him. Instead, the man walked them further into the grass and towards one of the hulking trees. Mahanon was laughing again and when Dorian shushed him, he tucked his chin towards his chest and tried to smother the noise. 

“If they hear us, they’ll make us help,” Dorian whispered. 

He turned Mahanon around carefully and backed him up over the twisting roots of the tree. They picked precise steps, Dorian’s hands tapping at Mahanon’s leg when he needed to take a higher step, and soon the elf was pressed back against a tree. They were well hidden from the others and it was then that Dorian’s lips brushed along his. The bite of tree against Mahanon’s back was a sharp contrast to the softness of the kiss. They melted together, hands mapping slow courses over their travel weary bodies, lips stealing breathe and moans. There was no way of knowing how long they stayed clung together, but eventually their presence was noted and inquired about.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra’s call came from the top of the knoll just at the base of the few steps of the pavillion. 

Both men froze, hands gripping in a nervous panic at whatever was beneath them-shirt, a hip, hair. Mahanon giggled, his forehead pressing to Dorian’s chest. He could feel a huff of breathy laugh at the back of his head where his hair was shorn shorter than the top, and he patted Dorian’s shoulder. “Guess we’ve been caught.”

“I, for one, plan to saunter out of here,” Dorian said easing away from Mahanon and straightening the black leathers with the gold buckles he wore. Riding in his nice new robes, he said, was difficult and more trouble than vanity was worth. And saunter the man did.

Mahanon followed behind him, watching the perfect posture he bore, even up hill. His cheeks were still flushed, though likely not as brightly as Mahanon’s over his pale skin, and his lips must of have been kiss-swollen. Still, the man Mahanon had fallen for looked a God to him. He had to wonder if anyone else saw Dorian this way; certainly Dorian saw himself that way, though the self-hate was buried there for anyone who could dig deep enough to see. The elf was definitely not as put together, and in spite of his years in the wilds, he had not exactly learned grace; Mahanon slipped twice coming up the hill, chuckling at himself each time and feeling only mildly mortified when Dorian hauled him up the second time and kept an arm around his waist. The contact in front of others had Mahanon’s heart racing, and he felt for any tensing from Dorian. Even when the others pitched them looks and threw gear their way, Dorian didn’t seem to tense any more than natural movement insisted upon. 

“Hey, Cassie. What do you need me to do?” Mahanon extricated himself from Dorian’s arm and stopped next to her. He watched Dorian move off with a pack that had been thrown at them and set to work cooking. Dorian was definitely their best cook, which was odd considering he shouldn’t have learned how to growing up where and how he had. Mahanon still hadn’t asked about that peculiarity.

With the stiff movements of one dedicated to a militant life, Cassandra folded her arms over her chest and looked slightly down at Mahanon. “Would you mind helping me put up the last tent?” She cocked her head off toward the left of the camp where the pieces lay waiting for them.

He gave a tight nod and they meandered over.

“Dorian has opened up since...that day.” While her tone read as a statement, Mahanon knew Cassandra well enough to know there was a question hanging on those words.

Mahanon nodded again, softer this time. “I don’t know that’s he’s completely comfortable yet, but yes. It’s helped me and he’s getting used to not having to hide. I suspect my, um,” he cleared his throat. He hadn’t actually brought up telling Cassandra anything about their conversations as of late, though Dorian had come to expect Mahanon would tell her much of his life. He thought this was a safe topic, but he still cast a glance at the Tevinter’s back. He was lighting a fire with magic while verbally fending off The Iron Bull. He couldn’t hear their words, but the playful tone echoed through camp. “I had a bit of breakdown again, and we decided that however all of this ends, our places are by one another’s side.”

Cassandra smiled and her arms shifted as though she wanted to reach out to him, but instead she started on the tent. They got it pulled up in quick, practiced ease and then sat on the edge of the pavillion behind it when they were done. The others were still around the campfire, talking and laughing loudly.

“You look better. Happier.” Cassandra did reach over this time, placing a hand on Mahanon’s knee.

He reached out, too, covering her hand with his. He gave it a light squeeze. “I am. Plus, it’s nice to be out in a forest for once. The warmth, the animals. It’s more familiar than the confines of that fortress.”

“Huh, I feel so exposed out here.” Cassandra looked around. “Nice as it looks, I mostly see attack points with little defenses.”

“Don’t worry, Cassie,” Mahanon said tilting off to the side to nudge his shoulder against Cassandra’s. “I’ll protect you.” He snickered and shook his head.

“What’s so funny?” Cassandra asked, leaning with him so that their shoulders did not part. They settled so naturally and Mahanon was reminded again that though he’d lost a clan, he’d also found a new one. 

One deep breath in, then he let it out into a smile. “Just the thought of  _ anyone _ needing to protect you. Sure, I think we all  _ want _ to, but you kick our asses in most fights. And I’m quite...small next to you.”

She chuckled too. “Well, I’m quite small next to Bull, but I still manage to toss him around on occasion.”

“See? You’re just proving my point further, Seeker.”

“I do appreciate the sentiment, Inquisitor.”

 

That night, Mahanon and Dorian shared a tent alone, and he wrapped himself up in the man’s arms. They did little more than sleep, both sore and exhausted from the trip out through the Dales. Still, it was a night enjoyed, especially considering how Mahanon would be spending the next day.

 

Tramping through the Graves, the bugs were the first bother. The entire company was swatting and groaning, compounding any complaints Varric might have had about nature. Even Mahanon found his initial pleasure somewhat dampened, which Dorian was all too happy to bother him about. They rode at the back of the group, as close as their mounts would allow, and chattered away. Perhaps Mahanon should have been paying closer attention. Perhaps this was why people who worked together in such a fashion tried to keep romance out of the equation. Or, perhaps, it was just another round of rotten luck buried within the good fortune they’d been having. It seemed the world was often concerned with balance, and it had been months since the loss of the Lavellan Clan, so this was just a rebalancing.

Behind them, from the tops of one of the many rocky hills they were passing by, a Venatori mage cast a fire spell through the middle of their ranks. Mahanon’s hart reared up, tossing him from her back as she screeched out in panic and fled from the fire that burned in the grass. The other horses and the giant war nug that Bull rode likewise spooked, and the company dismounted or were also thrown. Rolling and swatting at the flames that had caught along his sleeve, Mahanon sprung to his feet. He pulled his twin knives from the holsters on his shoulder blades and quickly assessed the area.

The mage had cast a watery blue shield about herself and was working on building up the next spell to throw at them. Dorian was already on that, staff in his hands as he scampered up away from the fighting that was spilling into the burnt valley. Mahanon turned his eyes, trusting the man to take care of himself. Instead, he focused on the group of Venatori fighters converging on his warriors. Bull was launching himself at a hulking man with a war hammer that seemed impossible to lift, Cole dodging his steps in the shadows as back up. Cassandra was engaging a few men with Varric firing a quick volley of arrows at them. That left a couple still descending the hill for Mahanon, and he darted closer to them, not allowing them to get a solid footing off the rocky pathway. 

He darted up, felt the cool touch of magic surround him and gave a silent thanks to Dorian for the shielding, and at the last moment slipped off to the left of the first Venatori. He dragged his knife along with him, expecting the slice to be blocked by the man despite the surprise in his direction change. He felt the slide of metal on metal and spun so that he was at the man’s back, using the moment their blades parted to gauge his distance. He was aware of the other man drawing in on them and kept one blade ready to block a side attack. The other was thrust forward with his lunge and then arched up so that it’s sharpened length ran across the Venatori’s back. The Tevinter radical wasn’t quick enough to turn and block this and he screamed out, falling forward and pitching down the hill. 

Turning on his heel, Mahanon sunk low as the second man came in, a sword passing over Mahanon’s head in that moment. He danced up, twisting to get behind him but this man was quicker, smarter. They met pressed close enough together he could smell the dredges of wine on the man’s breath. The elf grit his teeth, not comfortable with a tangle this close, but pushed in and down nonetheless. The Venatori lashed out with a small knife in the other hand, forcing Mahanon to give ground in retreat. Their weapons sung as they slid off each other and Mahanon’s feet ambled over the uneven path, careful precision keeping his ankles from turning. The man followed after him, brute strength and anger driving a heavy set of strikes downwards on the elf. 

The arrow that sunk in Mahanon’s shoulder spun him out of the path of the oncoming sword, and he landed cringing on the ground. The shielding Dorian had put up had fallen away and he hadn’t noticed. Two things needed to happen now; he needed to get to his feet to avoid the sword, and he needed to determine where the arrows were coming from. He pushed himself up with the arm that didn’t have an arrow in the shoulder, and his grip on the knife in the other shuddered before he tightened his fist. Hot pain lanced through his arm and his fingers spasmed. He dropped one knife but also managed to sidestep the sword slash aimed at his middle. Mahanon had angled the fight so that the Venatori was between him and the archer, he hoped. So, when the next attack fell at him, Mahanon swung his knife out to knock the blade away. They traded blows back and forth, metal sliding on metal, but the ache from the bolt in his shoulder began to prove too much. 

Ragged breath tore it’s way past Mahanon’s lips as his breathing became labored. Then, the familiar feel of magic again, but this time it came with pain. His whole body went rigid and the man with the sword drew in too close. He tried to bring his knife up, just barely catching the blow, but between the magic and the weight of the man’s attack, Mahanon found himself on the ground again. In what felt only a moment, the noise of the fighting receded to a deep pounding in Mahanon’s head. His body went cold and his vision danced, but he saw the blade coming back for him. 

Suddenly, the man went flying and the blade dragged across his chest but did not bury itself there, as seemed to be the original intent. Mahanon cried out in pain, lurching to his side and crying out again as his shoulder with the arrow ripped new fire through his body. His mind floated and his fingers sought out the pommel of his knife in the grass. They stretched through the green blades, pale and shaking, flecked with blood. The world spun and a deeper cold settled. He needed to stay awake. He needed…

A cry resounded through the valley--Mahanon’s name from a broken, familiar voice. Dorian. He needed Dorian. His eyes strained open again and the blue sky that leaked through the canopy of trees seemed closer than it should be. He stared up at it, half twisted so that his shoulder remained off the ground but he could still look upwards. It was likely he was going to die, Mahanon thought as he took in slow, pained breaths. 

Hours passed. Or minutes, or seconds. It was a blur of pain, cold, and blue sky so there really was no telling. But whatever it was, seconds or hours, worried silver-honey eyes stared down at him suddenly. Beautiful full lips were forming words, but the rush of a waterfall in Mahanon’s ears didn’t let him hear any of it. Reaching a shaky hand up, Mahanon sought Dorian’s face, trailing his fingers over the soft, warmly tanned skin there. Dorian pressed his own hand on Mahanon’s, entangling their fingers and squeezing.

Mahanon had never seen such panic in the man’s eyes and it hurt, somewhere beneath the cold and aching that had overtaken his body. “I’m sorry, ma vhenan. I…”

“Stop, please, amatus. Hush, lie still. You’ll be okay. This will--it will be okay,” he stuttered, the words breaking through the waterfall. His hands hovered over Mahanon as though he wasn’t sure where to start.

When Cassandra came over, she was not gentle in pushing Dorian out of the way. She’d been in battle; she’d seen these wounds before. She could help him, Mahanon thought. “This is going to hurt,” Cassie said as her hands wrapped about the shaft of the arrow.

Mahanon barely had time for the words to register when she snapped the furrowed end from the shaft. He cried out, trying to pull away, but she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him still. Then she pushed the shaft, continuing the path the arrow had taken. Finally, she pulled it out from the meaty bit at the back of his shoulder. “You’re lucky the tip came through so far. I might not have been able to get it out otherwise.”

The words were there, and he knew she had said something pertinent to his condition, but nothing made much sense. He listened, though, trying to draw some strength from her voice. As she started to tear away his shirt, the jostling of his aching body racked him with pain again but he had little voice left to cry out. Instead, he put his teeth together and flitted his hand out, seeking Dorian. He tried to say the man’s name, and whether that had happened or not, a hand slipped into his. It was familiar and anchored him to this moment. Blackness crept in and out during the cleaning process, and Mahanon didn’t fully come to until they were at camp and a few days had passed.

 

Inside the tent, the air was stifling. Any light from the sun that managed to seep through the trees heated the inside, though it did very little to light anything behind a dull haze. The tent also smelled thickly of blood and elfroot, which turned Mahanon’s stomach as he inhaled. He half expected the pain to hit him once more but found a dull ache was all that crept across his waking body. Either this was something to be thankful for or to worry about, but that would be discovered sometime after gaining better control over his ability to sit up.

Dorian’s voice cut his movements short. “Oh, woah, woah,” it hummed from next to the cot Mahanon was stretched out on. “You should not be moving, yet.” The man crouched down next to him and put a gentle hand over his chest, not quite touching. Still, he could feel the body heat from it.

“Alright,” he choked from a dry throat. He took a breath and the heavy ache tightened a bit across his chest. Glancing down he found that he would have been bare-chested but for all the bandaging. A thin gurgle of red bubbled a line across the white wrappings. “Is--how am I doing, Dor?”

The tight look on his face, the crinkle that sat between his eyebrows and drew his nose up, spoke volumes. His voice was calculatingly soft as he said, “It could have been much deeper. We managed to get you to swallow an Elfroot elixir a few hours ago, so the pain should not be momentous.”

Mahanon nodded and reached out with his left hand, the one without the mark and the one whose shoulder did not have an ache from an arrow wound. His fingers stretched, seeking any part of Dorian he could reach. That happened to be the man’s forearm and he let his long fingers drape over it, enjoying the warmth he was letting off. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but when they blinked back open again Dorian was on the cot with him, wrapped along his least aching side. He was watching Mahanon with that intense, creased look, so the elf tentatively, with a shaking hand, smoothed his fingers over his forehead. 

“I’m alright, Dorian. I promise,” Mahanon whispered. 

There was a shaky inhale of breath, a sound similar to when Dorian had confronted his father with Mahanon. It was a sound Mahanon had never wanted to hear again, and the pain it sent through him was worse than the fire he’d felt on the battlefield. “It wasn’t alright, though,” Dorian said in a voice to match the shaky inhale. “I saw you go down. If Cassandra hadn’t been right there to knock the man over-” He choked a breath, closing his eyes and tucking his head beneath Mahanon’s chin. 

It hurt to reach over, to sling an arm across Dorian’s body, but Mahanon needed to be closer. He wanted to soothe the man, to reassure him that he was here and fine and wasn’t going anywhere. 

Dorian said something, but his mouth was at Mahanon’s chest and the words were lost to the bandages and skin. A hand on the mage’s back felt the first tremors of a sob. While he wasn’t sure what speaking would do to Dorian’s state, he desperately wanted to know what the man was saying. Softly, “Ma vhenan, I um, I can’t hear-”

Turing his head so that his cheek rested on Mahanon’s chest above the wound, Dorian’s voice rang out clearly in the tent. “I can’t lose you. We weren’t sure--I thought for a moment--” There was a wetness on his cheeks. “I never thought I’d find what we have, that I would be allowed someone as you, and I cannot lose you, Mahanon.”

Though it was a close call, Mahanon was certain he’d much rather feel the slash of a blade once more than the crushing weight of Dorian’s fears. He wanted to apologize, to make wild promises that neither were sure they could keep while Corypheus was still a threat. Mahanon wanted to tear down the skies and hand the stars to Dorian, and he said as much. Breathless, pain arching through his ragged but healing body, Mahanon spilled promises he could never be sure he could keep. Dorian promised them right back. 

Dorian was dozing, tucked against his side while Mahanon stared up at the tent when Cassandra popped in. He quickly drew a finger to his lips, urging for quiet so that she didn’t wake Dorian.

Cassandra sat close to the cot, cross-legged on the floor. The cot was low enough that they could see each other just fine. “I would think this should be reversed, that he would be fussing over you,” she whispered. The hint of what could be considered a smile for Cassandra sat tucked in the left corner of her lips.

“I feel I’ve slept for too long, and I’m sure he didn’t sleep a bit while I was out.”

She shook her head in confirmation. “Barely a wink in the last three days.”

Mahanon raised his eyebrows. He was sure he’d been out hours, but he hadn’t expected a few days. “I was out that long?”

“It should have been longer, according to the healer.”

“Didn’t know we brought a healer,” Mahanon said, running his fingers in absent circles over Dorian’s back. The soft silk of the robes was soothing.

Cassandra’s shoulder lifted in a shrug. “We were close enough to Harding’s camp that Varric rode back and retrieved her. The healer, I mean.” She ran her hands down her thighs and leaned back a bit. He knew the motions; there was something she wanted to talk about and was building herself up to broach the topic.

“What’s wrong?” He couldn’t imagine much else  _ could _ go wrong, or at least that not much would surprise him at this point.

“It’s nothing wrong.” She stuttered over a breath and looked up to the ceiling of the tent. “I know that what we are doing is important, but you give a lot of yourself.”

“We all do,” Mahanon firmly whispered.

The woman nodded her agreement. “Certainly. And I think you-- _ we _ forget that we matter in all of this as well. We’re working to make Thedas better, safe, and we must make sure we’re taking care of ourselves as well.” She dropped her gaze to the ground now, her palms running over her legs again. “We all would give our lives for this cause, but while we yet live we should appreciate the time we have.”

Mahanon’s brows drew tight and he tilted his head curiously. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me, Cassie.”

“I think you and Dorian should take some personal time, once you’re able to be up and around again.” Her hand moved from her leg to Mahanon’s, her fingers rubbing back and forth through the light blanket that covered him. “I don’t know how comfortable Dorian will be, but you should try to get him to come with you. Maybe visit Val Royeaux for a few days.”

“We haven’t tracked down the lyrium shipments yet, though.”

“The Iron Bull is on that. And Cullen is sending a small retinue of soldiers to assist. Lelianna, Cullen, and Josephine agree. Take some time for yourself. You need it.”

As much as he wanted to argue, Cassandra drew herself up and beat a hasty retreat from the tent.  Perhaps they were right. There wasn’t much use in fighting and dying for something if you didn’t take time to appreciate some of the world you were working to save. Certainly a few days off would be good for the health and mentality. Aside from Wicked Grace, chess, and times he could steal alone with Dorian in his quarters, Mahanon hadn’t taken much time off. They’d been running headlong from one problem to the next for months now. Still, could he justify playing around Orlais when so much still needed doing? While the others were busy working? Taking days off was quite a bit more than sneaking off for a kiss while camp was being set up.

Mahanon swallowed and it felt as though he was trying to gulp down sand. It started a coughing fit that promptly woke a worried Dorian.

“Just my throat. I need some water,” Mahanon reassured as the mage jolted up and looked around for the source of danger. The elf tried sitting up and the world only mildly spun. His body ached from lying still for so long. 

“I’ll go fetch some. Hold on a moment.”

Dorian hurried from the tent and returned with water as Mahanon situated himself on the edge of the cot. His feet sat firmly on the ground, and he kept himself straight so he didn’t crease the wound at his chest or put pressure on his shoulder. A canteen was pressed to his hands, and when he seemed able to lift if just fine, Dorian let his own hands fall away. The water was warm but tasted fresh enough. It soothed the scratchiness that had settled in the back of his throat and splashed into a hungry belly, which decided to make itself known now with a growl. 

“Ah, I should have brought you something to eat, too!”

Dorian made to rush out of the tent again, and Mahanon snatched at his wrist. That was a mistake. The movement pulled at him and he hissed out a breath. However, Dorian stopped abruptly. He turned with a crushing look, hands reaching out pleadingly. 

“Are you alright?” He was crouching in front of Mahanon now.

“Yeah, that was not a well thought out movement,” he chuckled. “But stay a moment? I want to talk.”

A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched high. “Oh? What of?”

“Taking a break.” That was not a well thought out phrase, either, as Mahanon quickly realized from the sudden rush of color from Dorian’s face. “No! No, no, not a break with us. A break  _ for _ us. I mean, a trip. Together, to Val Royeaux or something because Cassie and the advisors think I need to take care of myself and enjoy something. So, you and me on a break, together.” He tripped over his words, not sure if he was making logical sense but hoping to rid Dorian’s face of that awful, confused look. It was just another reminder that though they often confessed themselves to each other, Dorian had been through hell with relationships most of his life. Not for the first time, Mahanon vividly thought about tracking down each person who dared hurt Dorian and turning them inside out for it.

With a laugh, Dorian’s hands found his face and he pressed his lips to Mahanon’s. It was a brief, reassuring kiss. Then, against them, he said, “Of course I’ll go with you.”

“Oh,” Mahanon purled as he kept their lips close. He needed to feel Dorian and it seemed the man needed the same thing right now. “Good. I wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with that.”

“In honesty, I’m sure I will, what was the word you used…” He pulled back to tap his chin in some obscene showiness. “Stumble, I think it was. I’m sure I will stumble over open affection in public, but again, it is something I would like to grow comfortable with.”

“I understand, and I would let you control the physical aspects of everything in public.”

Diran leered, a grin crooking his lips. “But not in private?”

Mahanon let out a growling purr of a noise. “Depends on my mood.”

“If you were not such a broken man right now, my lovely amatus, I would have you. Or let you have me, depending on your mood.”

And if Mahanon didn’t feel so broken, he would very well let him. “How about we just try getting me something to eat first?”

In a sweeping gesture, Dorian pulled himself back upright and gave a little bow. “As you command, Lord Inquisitor.” 

That teasing, sultry tone managed to hit Mahanon low in the gut and he felt stirrings despite the rest of his body not wanting to chase that feeling to anything further. He smiled and watched Dorian disappear again before he tried standing up. Likely, he should have had someone there in case he couldn’t actually keep his weight, but he didn’t want to make an ass of himself in front of others just this moment. So, on wobbling legs and with arms outstretched for balance, he took a few testing steps. It wasn’t horrible; he could walk and was able to put his arms back at his sides fairly quickly. By the time Dorian had returned with a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread, Mahanon had made a few paces around the small tent. 

“How are you feeling?”

“A little shaky, but good.” Mahanon retook a seat when Dorian set the plate on the cot. “You look better after your nap. Cassie said you didn’t sleep much the last few days.”

Dorian waved his hand around in the air dismissively. “I had to make sure you were alright.”

With a grin, because he felt he should be playful now that they were in better moods, Mahanon retorted, “Isn’t that the healer’s job?”

“Well, she didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. Your backwards Southern medicine is a bit behind what Tevinter has. I had to make sure she didn’t do something as barbaric as leeching you,” Dorian huffed imperiously. 

His nose was actually in the air a bit and this made Mahanon laugh. That set off a bit of coughing and a new round of pain through his chest. Dorian fussed over him again, but they both settled and picked at the plate before Mahanon dragged Dorian back down for another nap. This time, they both slept, each drifting through troubled dreams of losing one another.


	5. The Heroism we recite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking some time heal in Val Royeaux, the boys face some of Dorian's lingering concerns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short fluffy chapter with a bit more smut. Next three chapters are the big ones (Adamant, Trespasser, Post Trespasser).

The sun shined down from a bright blue sky over the busy, circular plaza of Val Royeaux. The crowd wasn’t bad, but rather happily busy with loitering, window shopping, or actually dropping thousands of gold to keep up with the latest fashions. There was a pleasant breeze that kept it from being too warm amidst the mingling townsfolk, which put Mahanon and Dorian in a fair enough mood. While they weren’t holding hands as Mahanon would naturally have done with a lover, they were close enough that talk was easy and intimate. They were rounding the tall, central tower thing with the ugly golden lions and Mahanon was eyeing the cafe. The sounds of a bard echoed out from beneath it’s covered seating area, the words in Orlesian and incomprehensible to Mahanon. Still, the tones and rhythm were pleasant and upbeat during the nice summery day.

“Can we get something?” Mahanon pointed toward the cafe, glancing at Dorian.

The man nodded and angled them off towards the building. They were seated at a table near the low fencing and plants, out in the sun. Mahanon sat on one side, Dorian across from him on the other, and the elf laid his arms across the space allowing the human to make the choice to touch or not. For now, Dorian did not. Instead, he clasped his hands in front of him on the table. 

Mahanon watched as Dorian’s eyes darted to the elf’s hands, drifted back to his own, and then settled on his lap. The man took a deep breath and let it out in slow control. If it wouldn’t have been awkward, perhaps he would have even gotten up and started pacing to help himself think out what he was clearly struggling to say. Given enough time, he’d come up with it, and Mahanon had learned it was best to stay quiet until then. The feeling that accompanied the thoughtful silence wasn’t an uncomfortable one, but rather an accepting and patient one. With as much as they’d both needed to work through, they both sought the best way to say things to make sure they were understood. There was no need for another conversation where one thought the other was leaving, they’d both decided.

“Do you ever get this nagging voice in the back of your head that you know isn’t common sense, but it tries to convince you that it is? Mostly it just mutters anxieties at you.” Dorian flexed his fingers and slowly reached over, letting the tips of his fingers rest atop Mahanonn’s knuckles. “You know that what it’s saying isn’t the truth, or if it is, it shouldn’t really be something you worry about.”

Though he wasn’t sure it was quite as strong as Dorian’s, Mahanon knew of nagging anxieties, so he nodded his head and held his hand still. It felt as though Dorian needed to be in control of the movements and touching at this point in time, and he was happy to allow him that control.

“That voice, that nagging, it sounds a lot like my father. Which is part of why I know it isn’t a voice I should be listening to.”

With a smirk he couldn’t help, Mahanon retorted, “Should I be worried you’re hearing voices, ma vhenan? Do we need to elect Solas’s help in ridding your pretty head of a demon?”

Dorian tutted at him, lightly smacking the back of his hand. Directly afterwards, he soothed the hurt by rubbing little circles over the barely tingling skin. “That’s not what it is. Though sometimes I think that would be easier to deal with.” 

“What is that voice saying today?” Mahanon risked brushing his thumb over the bit of Dorian’s hand he could reach from the bottom position before stilling it again.

Another deep, controlled breath. “It’s saying-”

A waiter interrupted, putting two glasses of water down between them, making Dorian jerk his hand back. He sat up straighter and gave the man the largest fake smile Mahanon had seen him wear in a while. “Afternoon,” the waiter hummed in a thick Orlesian accent. “What can I get you gentlemen today?”

Had they not know each other so well, it would have been presumptuous of Dorian, but he put in their order. He asked for a couple of Mahanon’s favorites and a coffee each. When the waiter left them alone again, Dorian visibly relaxed. There may have been others in the cafe with them, but such close attention must have set something off in Dorian; certainly the other patrons were busy with their own conversations and food to be bothered paying any mind to the elf and the Vint.

“So, it’s saying?” Mahanon’s voice was gentle in his prodding, but he didn’t want to let the issue drop so quickly. There were still a lot of feelings that needed to be worked through, and Mahanon was determined to be helpful, just as Dorian was helping him deal with the loss of his clan.

Dorian wouldn’t meet his eye which let Mahanon know that what was to come wouldn’t be something he’d like. He steeled himself, gauging his reaction so that he didn’t push Dorian too far based on his own feelings. Dorian would need rational support, the kind Mahanon prided himself on providing as Inquisitor to any who needed it.

“It’s saying that what I’m doing is wrong, that what I want is wrong, that I am failing at who and what I am supposed to be,” he whispered.

Mahanon wanted to yell at the bard to shut up, but he kept his features calm and leaned closer. He heard every word, despite how quietly they were spoken and they cut through him worse than any blade ever had. “I think you need a new voice, one that isn’t your father’s.”

“I’m all ears,” Dorian let out a wry chuckle.

“You’re perfect the way you are. You have done and are doing amazing things, good things. You are enough, and I’ll never ask for you to change.” Mahanon knew it would take more than one afternoon to settle the thoughts in the man’s mind, to erase or at least begin to overshadow the years of mental abuse he’d endured at the hands of his parents, but Mahanon was willing to build that new voice day by day. “You’re enough, Dorian.”

The Tevinter’s face drew up as though he didn’t believe what Mahanon was saying. But then it changed. He reached back across the table, picked up the other’s hands and threaded their fingers together. “I would much rather hear that every day, yes.”

Mahanon smiled and squeezed his hands. “That’s the plan.”

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve your attentions, amatus, but I’m happy that I have them.” Dorian’s hand relaxed, but he let his fingers stay entwined, even when the waiter set their things down. The man didn’t linger, leaving the two to their conversation and snacks.

“Well, sticking by my side while being trapped in the future was a good start. Being brilliant and caring also helped.”

Dorian made a tsking noise between his teeth. “You’re forgetting my good looks and perfect wit.”

With a snort and a shake of his head, Mahanon replied, “Creators, how could I forget those things?”

“It’s forgiven.  _ This _ time.” 

Eventually they had to untangle their hands so that they could pick at the food and sip at their drinks. They fell into chatter about their companions, about the changes around Skyhold, and all the little things that had come up in their lives recently. They strayed away from heavier topics, enjoying the feel-good nature of their outing today. Their return to Skyhold could usher in the talk of work and the mess of the world.

After they finished and paid, Mahanon nodded toward the gardens. They seemed to be less crowded than everywhere else for the time being, and he was not keen on getting lost amidst too many people yet. Eventually Mahanon knew that Dorian would want to wander the shops and that would be fine. As they made their way back to the garden area, Dorian’s hand brushed along the back of Mahanon’s. The elf held his breath and then felt his heart flutter wildly when Dorian grasped at it. They walked, hand-in-hand, over to the back wall where it was shaded and looked out at the rest of the pretty garden. There was enough concrete and building that it didn’t feel like the beautiful wilds that Mahanon missed, but it was nice.

“How are your wounds?”

Mahanon stretched a little, careful to keep his hand in Dorian’s. “They’re fine. A little achy, but nothing horrible.”

The way Dorian’s brow knit together told Mahanon he was still worried. “I should learn healing magic.”

“Just for my sake?”

If he’d expected a pause or a sassy retort, he was disappointed. “Yes.”

Mahanon sputtered a laugh. “Truly? You’ve never thought of pursuing that discipline until now?”

Dorian shook his head. “Not as seriously as I am now. I could have helped if I’d known something.” 

“Possibly. Not that I don’t think it’s a nobel and worthwhile thing to pursue, but if it’s not an actual interest, perhaps there’s some other work you’ve put on hold since we’ve been using your talents?” Mahanon swung their joined hands a little and shifted so that his face caught the slant of sunlight along the wall. The warmth of it paired with the salty air from the Waking Sea was nice, and he closed his eyes to bask a moment.

The response came from closer than Mahanon expected, and his eyes flicked open to find Dorian pressed nearly chest to chest with him. “There are a few projects I’ve put off that would be nice to return to, but I can  _ also _ take up a new study.”

“You are amazingly brilliant, ma vhenan. I don’t know how you don’t tire of me. I couldn’t possibly keep up with everything you know.” He shook his head slowly back and forth, a smile playing along his lips.

Dorian’s eyes darkened as the pupil ate up the iris, focusing intensely on the elf. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Mahanon. I’ve seen you work through ancient dwarven puzzles, waltz through elven mysteries, and pull along all your advisors like a puppeteer with the littlest effort. You’ve read most every text we come across, or make some poor translator read them to you, and I know because you’ve spouted things gleaned only from having read new text in-depth.” The man reached a hand up and cupped Mahanon’s jaw. “You and I may have different knowledge bases, but you are by no means any less brilliant than I.”

Perhaps it was the touch, or maybe the words that Dorian poured forth had built up some uncontrollable desire in Mahanon, but the close proximity of Dorian’s lips and the warmth passing between them drew Mahanon in; he went up on his toes, gripping at Dorian’s arms for balance, and put his lips to Dorian’s. For a moment, the kiss was returned, but then the man withdrew.

“Kevesh.” 

The syllables came out rough, and although it had never been used before, Mahanon recognized the safeword immediately. He pulled back in an instant, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a few settling breaths. “Apologies, that was,” Mahanon rubbed the back of his neck. “I should have known that would be too much.”

Dorian reached out, clasping his bicep. “No, you were reading the signals well, but I panicked.” He dropped his hand and shifted his weight a few times, leaning back against the garden wall. “I wanted to be okay with it, but I’m not yet. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Mahanon said quickly. “If I couldn’t apologize for my moments, you are not allowed to apologize for yours. Besides, it’s nothing to be sorry about. It will take time; time I’m willing to put in with you.”

“I believe you mean ‘put up with’.” The space between them widened as Dorian took a step back, shuffling his feet on the loose, decorative gravel that they stood upon. 

Letting out a purposeful sigh that pulled the human’s attention, Mahanon shook his head. “No, I meant what I said. I,” he coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. “I love you, Dorian, and this is not a hardship for me. At all.” Mahanon smiled and looked out over the garden, face turned to the sun. “I’m enjoying just being here with you, away from all the issues and demands of the Inquisition.”

A quiet stillness settled between them and they sat themselves on a bench. Voices and laughter carried through the space, echoing off of the closeness of the walls. Dorian kept a small distance, but he leant toward the elf, a smile touching his lips and putting little crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

“It is nice, yes,” Dorian said after some time.

 

The sun was sunk low in the sky by the time the two made their way to the little hotel they were staying at. It was up a twist of stairs and overlooked the circular plaza, a small room but enough for their relaxed needs. There were also two beds, an illusion of some platonic relationship between anyone who used the services. Still, each one was enough for Mahanon to squeeze his smaller frame in with Dorian’s. The human was a solid mass, and each time the robes or leathers dropped away Mahanon was ever surprised at his bulk. It was a good feeling, being wrapped in the man’s arms as they curled up and whispered together. 

Mahanon rested his head above Dorian’s heart, listening to the murmurs rumble up from the depths of his chest. Mahanon drew little designs, traces of vallaslin patterns, over Dorian’s chest and bicep. The human was warm and his skin was soft, nearly lulling Mahanon into sleep, which he wasn’t ready for yet. As much time as they could get alone, he wanted to savor. 

“Amatus, are you sleeping?” Dorian hummed.

“No,” he said pressing his lips to Dorian’s chest. “Keep me awake.”

“I love you, too.” 

Mahanon chuckled, his fingers stilling in their run across Dorian’s body. “A few hours late, ma vhenan,” he teased, sitting up and leaning on his elbow so that he could look down at Dorian.

Instead of responding, Dorian flipped him over and straddled Mahanon. “You are a menace.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely. A complete menace who has taken my heart and made me fall in love. Can you imagine what my family would think? As though my father wasn’t scandalized enough at your little remark in Redcliffe,” Dorian chuckled.

Mahanon could feel the laugh all the way through him, and it made him smile. “I’m sure my Clan will-” he choked suddenly as he realized his mistake. “Um, would have been--” It had been some time since he’d thought of them without remembering their loss in a logical way versus emotional; the sudden icy plunge into their absence made him stumble over his words, and a stinging of tears played at the corners of his eyes. He took a steadying breath, turning his face away.

Dorian sat back on his heels, taking some weight from Mahanon as he shifted back. His fingers drew carefully along Mahanon’s jawline, threaded into his short locks, and he smiled sadly. Still, he stayed quiet and let Mahanon find his words.

Pushing a wry chuckle out, Mahanon looked back up, nuzzling into the hand. “Well, you  _ are _ a shemlan Magister from  _ evil _ Tevinter after all. I’m sure they would have attempted to free me from your ownership.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Dorian made dramatic flippant movements with his hands. “I am an  _ altus _ , ever so much less than a Magister. I’m sure whatever property I tried to own would merely belong to my father instead.”

“Mm,” Mahanon wrinkled his nose. “But I don’t-”

Dorian stopped him with a kiss. “You stop that this instant.” He kissed him again and they fell together for many lost breaths and quickened heartbeats. “Menace,” Dorian insisted again, breathed out over the elf’s lips.

Even at night, Val Royeaux was busy with life. The cafe and shops stayed open late, lanterns lit as night fell and music turning to the softer tones of romantic ballads with the passing hours. The window of their room was open and let in the bursts of noise, soft laughter and strokes of notes from the singer’s instruments, and it played out in their ears as they lay tucked against each other. 

“Are you alright, Mahanon? Is there something I can do?” Dorian’s voice broke through suddenly and felt louder than it was. 

Mahanon stirred from the depths of his racing thoughts and attached to that voice. He allowed the rich tone to fight back the fear that invaded his heart again. “I don’t know. I thought I was handling things well, but then there are moments that pull me back. The tiniest things, and then I remember I won’t be able to see them again.” He shifted beneath Dorian, wrapping his arms around his neck even though it was an awkward position while they were lying there, and put his nose to the man’s skin. Inhaling his dark, musked scent, Mahanon continued. “When I was sent to the conclave, I knew there was a chance that I wouldn’t see them again, but that would be because of my loss, not theirs. They weren't supposed to die. I was the one putting myself in danger.”

Dorian rubbed his back, nodding with his words. “It happens to me with Felix. Little moments or memories. Or wanting to tell him things about you, about us. Then I remember I can’t and his loss hurts all over again.”

Blinking and stilling beneath Dorian, Mahanon sucked in a breath. “Oh, vhenan. I haven’t asked about how you’re dealing with his death. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright. I haven’t brought it up, and it is quite a bit different from your situation. I knew Felix’s time was limited, so I’ve dealt with it well. I just wish, as you, that it hadn’t happened to him.”

A few stray tears snuck down Mahanon’s cheeks. “You know, I had much better plans for tonight. It seems I’ve turned everything sour.”

“When I said that I wanted something more with you, amatus, I meant this, too. I’m here to share everything you feel and experience, not just the good things. Just as you may relish the beauty and perfection of my wonderful self, I’m afraid there are days when I’ll be less than perfect.” Dorian gave a shake of his head, a slight frown on his lips.

“Dorian Pavus? Less than perfect? I never thought I’d hear such a thing from you.”

“Ah, ever full of surprises, I am. But in all seriousness, tonight can be for the less than happy, and tomorrow perhaps we’ll have a night for those fun things you wanted to do.” Dorian shifted and glanced towards the window where a gust of wind blew, cold as it had been dragged across the cold of the Waking Sea. “Mind if I close that? I’m still not used to the Southern coldness.”

Mahanon smiled and pushed at him gently, “I don’t. Go on, then.”

The man climbed out of bed, closed the window, and ran back to the bed with a fake shiver. Taking advantage of the play at how cold Dorian was, the two curled up together and soaked up the quiet of the closed room. Mahanon nestled his head beneath Dorian's chin and tucked light kisses across his bare chest. “When you said you were staying, after Redcliffe, I knew that I wanted to be with you. And then when you asked what we were, when I told you it was more than fun, I started thinking about how I would introduce you to my clan. I wanted you to meet Keeper Deshanna.” 

Dorian rubbed his shoulder and planted a kiss to his head. “I would have loved to go with you amatus.”

“Really? Into the wilds with all that weather and nature?” Mahanon's voice was watery, but he still tried to joke, to keep from being too sad.

With a soft chuckle, Dorian replied, “Yes, even with nature and all that awful stuff the wilds are filled with. I would sleep in the mud for a week if it pleased you.”

Sniffing, Mahanon nudged at Dorian's chest with his nose. “Oh stop. You wouldn't and I wouldn't ask it. But, thank you. Even if you can't meet them now, thank you for wanting to.”

“I want to see as much of you and your life as possible, Mahanon. You truly amaze me.”

“You know I want the same of yours. I fear it will be trickier for me, an elf, to tromp around Tevinter with you, but I would do it.”

Dorian's hand squeezed at the shoulder before picking up it's circular pattern again. “If you ever came to Tevinter, I would be a mess of nerves and protectiveness.” He breathed in a deep breath, slowly releasing it with thought. “Though, it would be interesting to show you my home. To show you parts of me I have never shown another.”

Mahanon had meant to respond with something more eloquent than the hum-grunt he gave, but sleep was pressing in and taking away his faculties. The warmth and familiar scent of Dorian lulled him into a dreamless sleep where he was able to forget his grief for a few dark hours. 

 

There was an overwhelming warmth curling low in Mahanon’s belly that flamed brighter as consciousness crept back into his mind. Mewling noises crawled from his throat and his hips rucked against the firmness of another person’s leg. Fingers sought purchase on soft flesh, tangled in silken locks of hair. Answering groans sounded through the little room, low and guttral in the early morning. 

Mahanon’s eyes blinked open. Light filtering through the edges of the curtained windows allowed him enough to see by, and Dorian’s face came into focus. His eyes were half-masted, and his full lips murmured unintelligible encouragement, mustache adorably mussed above the muffled words. Words weren’t needed for this, though, and neither tried anything more than the base sounds they seemed unable to help.

Shifting so that he was on top of Dorian, carefully between his legs, Mahanon lined their hips up and rolled them. He could feel them both slowly stiffening with arousal just as lazily as the rest of their movements. There was no need to rush anything, no hurry of tasks for the day. Hands drifted across bare skin, slipping over hard curves and cupping hips or shoulders as their bodies rolled together.

In the quiet of the morning, Mahanon could hear each hitch of Dorian’s breath. With their slow rhythm, he could feel the quickening of Dorian’s heartbeat and his own matching pace. It was peaceful and so much more than he had planned before.

After long, lazy minutes of putting together, they both seemed wake more fully. Dorian took hold of Mahanon's hip more seriously, and he lifted the elf up a bit so that he was straddling Dorian's hips now. Mahanon dropped his hands to Dorian's chest to keep balance, and the human was slicking his fingers in the little jar of lubricant they brought with them, having been set on the table between the beds for just this occasion. Then, the human worked Mahanon open gently. Teasing circles, the steady slide of one finger easing inside, and just when Mahanon's head felt like it would go fuzzy, a second and third finger. Tingles of electricity shot through the elf, and his fingers curled around Dorian's shoulders. 

Mahanon gasped and rocked back on the fingers that pulsed in and out of him. They curled, dragging along his prostate in a way that had him arch his back and cry out, “Dorian!”

Dorian was relentless. He pulled Mahanon to the edge and back again until the elf was shaking above him, thighs tight and quivering against Dorian's sides. “Amatus, can we move a moment?”

Words were a bit beyond Mahanon, so he merely nodded. Whatever Dorian had in mind, he was sure he would like. Helping as much as his Shelly legs would let him, Mahanon found himself on his back, looking up at Dorian who tucked himself between the smaller man's legs. He put a warm hand under one of Mahanon's knees and lifted his leg up, opening him up. Pressing his erection to Mahanon's ass, he let the leg rest up on his shoulder and pushed inside of his lover carefully.

The new angle allowed Mahanon to feel everything differently, and there was a slight ache at the stretch. Still, his wounds didn't sting and the heaviness of Dorian's penis filling him felt worth any ache that would come later.

“Creators, that's-” his words turned to garbled moans as Dorian rocked his hips. Mahanon tossed his head back and arched up into the next thrust. “Fuck. Ah, Dorian. Harder, just a bit…” He sucked in a breath and as Dorian spread a hand over his chest, he felt a cold trail of magic lighting across the healing wound on his shoulder, felt it trail down over bruised areas and probably cracked bones. Then Dorian went harder.

Mahanon's hands fisted into the silken Orlesian sheets. He wrapped his other leg around Dorian's hips and met the pace of the solid thrusts, tightening his inner muscles around the erection inside of him. His own penis was trapped between them, friction from their bellies drawing on the orgasm he sought. 

It wasn't long before they both tumbled over into the abyss of ecstacy, crying out each other's names. 

“If we woke up like that every morning, I would not complain,” Dorian panted in Mahanon's ear. “How are you feeling?”

Stretching his legs out, Mahanon let out a noise like a purr. “Mm, good. Nothing too achy.”

With a nod, Dorian curled around Mahanon. “I think we should ride home immediately and steak those baths for the next couple of days. I'd love to pamper you in them.”

“Home,” Mahanon hummed. He hasn't necessarily thought of Skyhold as home, but then, with his business friendships and romance, he certainly didn't  _ not _ think of it as home. “I--when did you start thinking of Skyhold as home?”

Dorian chuckled and interned their fingers. He lifted their hands, looking at them. Pale skin and golden brown, contrasting but beautifully mixed. “I suppose it was when you and I had our first night together, when I first thought that we could be something more than I ever hoped to find with someone.”

Mahanon smiled. “It does feel like home, with you. And the others, but mostly for you. I still think of my Clan and home being the same thing, but now that they're gone…” Mahanon squeezed their hands tighter and brought the back of Dorian's down to plant a kiss. “You're home for me now, and we are going to do some amazing things.”

“Absolutely. We'll be heroes like in the tales.” Dorian chuckled again and leaned over, stealing kisses. 

They'd make it out of the room eventually, and back to Skyhold to claim the baths, but they had hours yet.


	6. Would be a daily thing,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahanon feels like he's losing more than winning; Dorian tries to convince him they're still doing the right thing. Also sex (with a bit of bondage).

Adamant was a disaster. Mahanon stood on the crumbled remains of one of the towers overlooking the wreckage the battle had left behind. Clarel was dead, Stroud was in the Fade likely also dead, and Hawke had already taken off to Weisshaupt leaving Mahanon to deal with the consequences of allowing the Grey Wardens to remain functioning in Orlais. Of course, they’d be under the guidance and watchful eye of the Inquisition, but the elf understood the others’ worry. Still, as far as Mahanon saw it, everyone was at risk in some way or another. The Templars had fallen red lyrium, Mages could easily fall to the same, and yet they were still used and allied with. For Mythal’s sake, Mahanon’s own alliance had been questioned time upon time. He was not in the place to turn away any powerful help he could get. 

He kicked a rock from the top of the pile and watched it skitter and tumble down the broken pathway, taking its time to reach the bottom of the tall hill. It splashed in the red tinted puddle, reminding Mahanon of the life lost in this place, collected for burning or burial by the Inquisition soldiers and their new Grey Warden allies. Arguments and tension had broken out a few times over what to do with the bodies of corrupted Grey Wardens, but Mahanon had settled it with tasking Wardens to care for Wardens, Inquisition to Inquisition. It was a divide that he wanted to abolish eventually, but the wounds were too fresh as of yet.

“You’re scowling at rocks, amatus. Perhaps we should take a walk away from this, just for a time?” Dorian’s voice sounded at his side and Dorian reached out a hand, waiting for Mahanon’s own to find its way to him.

He deposited his smaller hand into Dorian’s and let the man lead him carefully down the rubble pile and out of the demolished front gates of Adamant Fortress. “It’s a loss.”

“A victory,” Dorian practically interrupted. “Not all victories feel as such, but you have won today and that is what you should focus on.”

“I wish more of this would feel like a victory. Each day feels as though I’m losing more and more of myself and Thedas.” He squeezed Dorian’s hand and felt his shoulders sag as the thoughts pressed him down.

They strolled out into the outcropping of trees that stretched itself beside the desert fortress, zigzagging through the spotted landscape. Mahanon let his free hand brush along the dried up trunk of one of the trees. Dorian pulled them to a stop a few yards out, far away enough from the din of the soldiers to speak more or less privately. 

“I understand the feeling. I started losing myself in Tevinter, which prompted my leave as much as the actions of my father. I think I would have ended up here whether he’d tried to change me or not.” Dorian’s hands tugged back and he set them on either side of Mahanon’s face, drawing him for a light kiss. “However, you are still doing a fine job, Inquisitor. It is not easy, but I’ll be here for you through it all. And so will the others. Cassandra, The Iron Bull, Varric-” He punctuated his words with small pecks on the lips. “They all know what you face, and they face the same.”

Mahanon wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist. “Sometimes I dream of us leaving, fading into world and away from all of this.” 

“As do I,” Dorian smiled.

They walked along the broken ground together for some time until Mahanon thought they could not stay away without being missed. The camp still needed direction, and it often helped when the Inquisitor was present to remind everyone what they were fighting for. He could merely stand in the midst of chaos and he’d draw some semblance of order from them, a symbol more than a man. Still, Mahanon had his advisors and inner circle to remind him of the man he was, as Dorian said. If he needed to play the symbol for another couple of days, he could muster the strength in the wake of the destruction they’d all faced.

 

The sky was darkly clouded as the large force moved across the Exalted Plains. The plan was to make it to the Emerald Graves camp just before nightfall as the Plains were already littered with Orlesian troops. No one had any desire to ruffle the feathers of Duke Gaspard or Empress Celene by mistakenly imposing some scene of invasion. So far, they’d managed to stay in good terms with both parties, and Mahanon would fight to keep it that way. Unfortunately, a couple supply wagons had tumbled into ditches and needed repairing, so they were stopped and fumbling as the sun sank lower in the sky.

“If they’re still having trouble, I might be able to help,” Mahanon offered to Cullen who was pacing next to their small gathering of the inner circle. 

“How?” Cullen’s temper spiked a moment and he offered up large, puppy eyes directly after his snapping tone. “How,” he tried again softer.

Mahanon drew close enough to pat his shoulder. “I helped the upkeep on my clan’s aravels. Picked up a few tricks.” 

With a nod, Cullen climbed back up on the sturdy war-stead he rode. “Alright. Let’s go lend a hand.”

With a laugh, Mahanon’s eyes glinted. “And how can  _ you _ help, Commander?”

Instead of a real response, he was met with Cullen’s huffing scoff before the commander trotted off to the back of the supply line. Mahanon turned toward Dorian who stood next to Varric, the two spinning stories together. It was becoming difficult to spend time away from Dorian, but Mahanon wanted to give him space if he needed it. Still, he hovered long enough that the Tevinter looked over at him and frowned. 

Mahanon waved a dismissive hand and started to climb up on the red Hart. A hand at his knee stopped him from taking off, though. “Amatus?”

“I…” He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s fine; stay with the others. I’m just going to help fix the ara- uh, wagons.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Dorian snorted. “Didn’t ask if you’d be fine. I asked if you wanted me to come with you.”

Tentative, Mahanon reached his hand down to run over Dorian’s as it still sat on his leg. When Dorian didn’t pull away, he threaded their fingers together. “Yes, please.”

The grace with which Dorian hoisted himself up behind Mahanon made the elf jealous. Then remembering how else and where else that grace could be used made him happy. Warm, leather covered arms wrapped around Mahanon’s waist and they took off down the lines of soldiers toward where the wagon was busted. If Dorian felt any nervousness about people seeing them this closely entwined, he didn’t show it. Of course, it had been a couple of months since Val Royeaux and the two were more often openly in each other’s space.Dorian had only had three moments in that time where he used kevesh to change a situation.Mahanon yielded to it each and every time, creating space in seconds of hearing it. By the third time, Dorian had turned his apologies to a single, “I’m sorry.”

Cullen had already taken over giving out directions to those working on the wagons. When Mahanon rode up, some of the soldiers backed up with wide eyes. He might have recently fought beside them in Adamant, but Mahanon was still a larger-than-life figure they looked at from a distance for the most part. 

Mahanon offered a smile at them and took Dorian’s hand which was held out to help him down off the Hart. “What broke?” he asked approaching a grizzled older soldier who seemed to be the main person working on the thing.

“Axle broke.” The human shook his head and glanced Mahanon up and down. “You’re the Inquisitor.”

“Yes, ser.” Mahanon moved around the wagon, feeling Dorian hovering off to the side, likely getting as many stares as Mahanon was.

“Rather small, ain’t’cha?”

While Cullen gasped, Dorian just laughed. Mahanon shrugged. “Makes people underestimate me. So far, that’s worked to my advantage.” He crouched next to the broken wheel and ran his fingers over the snapped metal. “Well, that’s pretty broken. We don’t have any spares?”

The human was stifling his snort from Mahanon’s early statement. “Used ‘em up on the other two broken wagons.”

“Well,” Mahanon said standing and wiping his hands on his pants. “We’ll fix it the elven way, then.” Taking a few steps away from things, Mahanon smiled up at Dorian. “Want to do some manual labor?”

Dorian folded his arms over his chest. “Hardly. I believe you have plenty of soldiers for that. If you need magic done or a tome studied, I’m your man.”

“It’ll be fun.”

“Manual labor is not fun, Lavellan.”

Mahanon grinned and pressed closer, teasing lighting up his eyes. “Using my Clan name. You must be quite serious. I guess I’ll just do it all on my own. Hopefully I don’t hurt myself.”

“I’ll supervise, then.” The mage looked down the line at the main bulk of their force. “You should probably send most of them ahead, don’t you think? As small troop stuck on the Plains looks better than your entire force.”

That was a fair point. Even if the small group that stayed to fix the wagon fell behind a few hours, it still worked out in their favor of keeping peace with the Orlesians. “Commander?” Mahanon drew Cullen’s attention. “I think you should lead the bulk of them on to the Emerald Graves camp.” 

Cullen was resistant, mostly at the idea of leaving the Inquisitor behind. Dorian made promises of protection, and then Cullen got to be the one to tell Cassandra they were leaving a small group behind with Mahanon.

It felt good to work on something straightforward again, something with a simple end goal. It had been ages since Mahanon had a feeling of normalcy. The wagon needed fixing, and he could do that much more easily than killing a pride demon and closing a rift. As he was working, Dorian stayed nearby to talk, and that helped, too. The mix of accomplishing a task and bantering with someone he loved put a warmth in his chest that reminded him of his time with his Clan. 

“Dorian?” Mahanon had only said it once before, but he wanted to say it again. He wanted Dorian to know how he felt, even if he was still nervous about it’s reception.

“Yes?” Dorian stood close enough that they could reach out and touch one another. Much closer than anyone else was to them.

In fact, the others had taken to their duties, or joined the main force in their advancement. Only a small retainer stayed behind with the wagon, much to Cassandra’s annoyance he was sure. There weren’t people close enough to hear if Mahanon spoke in a low tone, and he needed to. He was too aware of the fact that Dorian had abandoned friendship to stand about watching Mahanon work. He was too aware of the easy way they’d been speaking together. He was too aware of the fact that if he lost the man standing next to him, he would likely go made and find death in one final battle. He was too aware not to say it. 

“I love you, Dorian.”

Perhaps it was the seriousness in his tone, but Dorian’s eyes widened and he took half a step backwards. Mahanon’s chest tightened as silence filled the space between them for longer than he was expecting. Maybe Dorian had changed his mind about things? They’d progressed so much, but still…

Then the left corner of Dorian’s mouth tipped upwards. “I-you do? Mahanon that’s not, well, not something I expected to hear with such sincerity from someone.”

“We’ve shared the sentiment before.” Mahanon shoved two heavy wagon pieces together and then stood up so that he could better see Dorian. “Did you not believe me?”

Whatever it was Mahanon expected from this moment, being enveloped in Dorian’s arms wasn’t it--not in front of the group still milling about the temporary camp. And he definitely didn’t expect to feel soft, warm lips touch down on his. He leaned up into the kiss, though, and gripped at the silken front of Dorian’s robes. The kiss quickly fell from chaste to the hurried exploration that usually preceded sex, and Mahanon’s head began to swim with anticipation. Of course, this was not the place for that sort of progression. When Mahanon thought he couldn’t take anymore, Dorian pulled away with one of his deviant smirks.

“I believe you. And I love you, too, Mahanon. Now hurry up and fix that thing so we can continue this conversation in a tent.” The man sauntered off a few feet to where his horse was grazing, running those beautifully long fingers over the gelding’s back. The sway of Dorian's hips was a purposeful show for Mahanon.

It worked. Mahanon could feel heat spreading across his cheeks as he stood rooted to the spot trying to collect himself. They’d never been so openly bold, and it felt good. It added to the familiar feeling of home and normalcy. Mahanon hoped this feeling would never end, that their aspirations for Thedas did not rule out their own happiness.

A smile worked its way on Mahanon’s face, and as he turned to finish the wagon he found they  _ did _ have a small audience. It made the moment somehow stronger, a bigger step for Dorian, and for Mahanon, than he first realized. Dorian openly showing affection said more about love than just his “I love you” in return. 

Clearing his throat, Mahanon waved over the older soldier who was originally working on the wagon. He would need a strong pair of hands to help with the last part.

“You and the Magister, huh?” the soldier asked.

“He’s not part of the Magisterium,” Mahanon echoed the words he’d been fed early in his knowing of Dorian. “But, yes.”

“Well, perhaps this Inquisition really can change the way Thedas runs right now.” The man helped Mahanon heft the wheel up and together they got the wagon mobile again.

Mahanon nodded. “That’s my goal. I think we could all use a bit of change, and it’s not as hard as people make it out to be.”

“So long as people like you are in charge.” The man clapped Mahanon on the shoulder, a shem form of affection that the elf was getting used to, even if it still threw him a bit off balance. 

It was the soldier who got things moving again, taking control of the druffalo pulling the wagon and getting the other soldiers to their feet once more. Mahanon and Dorian took to the head of the small band. They were probably an hour behind the main force now but could travel a bit faster with so few people. Hopefully they’d make it to the Graves before it got too dark. Stumbling through the heavily wooded area at night was not a fun task  _ without _ having a wagon to care for.

While they rode, Mahanon kept stealing glances at Dorian, enthralled with this new confidence that plastered itself on his face, in his stance, and put more of a natural glow back in him. Mahanon wasn’t the only one feeling beaten down by this endeavor to save the world, he knew that. But, he didn’t always realize how much the others hurt until he saw some spark of life reignite in them. Like Cassandra bent over the newest book from Varric, or the reinstatement of pranks once Sera and Dagna became a couple. Now, he was seeing some of the real confidence Dorian had return to him. It was beautiful.

“Amatus, if you keep staring at me like that, you’re going to steer your mount right off the road,” Dorian teased.

Mahanon chuckled. “Sorry, I’m just--I don’t know. It’s silly.”

“Just what?” Dorian looked over with raised eyebrows.

“You’re really handsome when you’re happy.”

“And here I thought I was the sappy one.” He shook his head, a smile on his lips. “I suppose I can keep it hidden while you feel the need to say everything you’re feeling.” The way he settled in the saddle, relaxed, face in a smooth, even smile told Mahanon that he was teasing. 

“Want to know what I’m thinking now?” Mahanon’s face twisted to mischief.

Dorian took in an audible gasp at that look. “I very much would love to know what put that look on your face.”

Mahanon kept his voice low. “I’m thinking about how I want to get into a tent with you. To have you tie me down and fuck me until I’m crying your name to the Creators like a song. I want to feel your touch burn into every inch of me as though you’re crafting a rune of possession on the very fabric of my being.”

“Vishante kaffas, amatus,” Dorian gasped.

The chuckle Mahanon gave was sultry gravel. He muttered filthy praise to Dorian the rest of the trip, and when they finally made it to camp, Mahanon thanked the Creators that Cullen had seen to having a tent ready and waiting for him. He and Dorian took full advantage of Mahanon’s status and handed their mounts off to someone else to tend to. Then, they disappeared into the tent and each other’s arms.

 

The ropes that bound Mahanon’s arms were clearly meant for this use. They were soft, giving, and easy to tie and untie. They definitely weren’t made for any sort of hard labor, which made sense given that they were brought in Dorian’s bag of things. Mahanon tested the knot by tugging his wrists in opposite directions, and though the fabric molded around his wrists, it held him fast. His arms were behind his back, chest pressed down onto the bed, and face supported by a pillow. His legs were stretched out flat on the bed and he could feel Dorian’s hands at his ankles, slowly moving up his bare legs.

“You’re beautiful, Mahanon. And all mine. The world doesn’t know what it’s missing, what beauty it will never see.” Dorian’s voice was low, a husky whisper across Mahanon’s skin.

Strong, capable hands gripped at either side of Mahanon’s hips and pulled him upwards so that his knees were planted on the bed and his weight distributed down to his shoulders as they pressed to the pillow. His face was turned so that he could glance back and see glimpses of Dorian; the man’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, pupils blown to eat up any color. 

Dorian’s hands massaged his hips, fanned out across his ass, and moved down his thighs. He pulled Mahanon’s legs apart and nestled between them, pressing silken robes against Mahanon’s bare thighs and back. The fabric was surprisingly cool in the heat of the heavy forest, and Mahanon shivered when he felt cooling magic caress along his back. 

“I don’t want you to be quiet this time, Mahanon. I want you to make good on your promise; praise my name to your gods.” Dorian’s lips were at his ear and the man bit down on the lobe, then his tongue traced along the long length of elf-ear. Mahanon moaned aloud at the shivers it sent throbbing all the way down to his toes. 

The trail that Dorian chased with teeth and tongue across Mahanon’s neck and shoulders didn’t follow much of a pattern, and his unexpected turns had Mahanon gasping and arching into each touch. His bound hands were pressed between his back and Dorian’s body, everything held in place by Dorian’s hands on Mahanon’s hips. “Maker, you taste of the wilds,” Dorian hummed as he licked a stripe up the exposed upper part of Mahanon’s spine.

The elf was beginning to sink down as his body started to feel like mush, but the mage dragged him back, ass up, knees firmly planted on the bed, and legs spread wide. There was a sudden absence behind Mahanon and he strained to see over his shoulder and bound arms. He glimpsed Dorian losing his robes and climbing back up to him. A firm grip wrapped around Mahanon’s wrists when Dorian positioned his now naked form behind him.

His other hand dragged down Mahanon’s lower back, long magic-wielding fingers lilting down his silken slit to the sensitive perineum. A rough circle was rubbed into the velvet skin and fire shook the elf’s body. He cried out, a strangled moan of elvish cursing. It was chased by a throaty chuckle from Dorian, and he did not relent on his pleasure chasing. Those clever fingers circled the ring of muscle, not yet intruding within Mahanon, but rather teasing. The hand on the ropes tightened and pulled Mahanon to attention as he fell into a panting rhythm to match the taunting circles. He gasped, shoulders arching into the tug painfully, deliciously. And then a thread of more poignant pain as Dorian pushed a single finger inside of him.

“Fuck,” Mahanon panted, voice strained with the stretched position his lover held him in. “Creators, that’s-” 

Dorian pushed further in, slowly, causing Mahanon to gurgle incoherent sentences again. “You’re doing so well, amatus.” He eased Mahanon back down to the bed and gently pulsed his finger in and out of him, stretching him. 

Mahanon’s head felt as though it was filled with cotton by the time Dorian pulled away again. His nerves were shooting fire through his body, and he was ready to take his lover. “Please, ma vhenan. I need to feel more of you, please!” He whined, looking over his shoulder at as much of Dorian’s face as he could see. 

The mage smirked, gripped at Mahanon’s ass and gave it a squeeze. “My pleasure,” he hummed and pressed his thick cock against the elf’s backside. His hands gripped Mahanon’s ropes again, and he pulled Mahanon upright, sinking him down onto Dorian’s slick erection. 

“Dorian! Fuck, Creators, you’re amazing,” Mahanon cried out loudly. His body tensed with the sudden, thick intrusion and the ropes bit at the skin of his wrists and arms. His shoulders were pulled back and everything was suddenly pleasure-pain in an instant and an eternity. 

Dorian moved his hips upwards, holding Mahanon in place so that they did not fall back down toward the bed. Upright, he fucked into the other man, drawing praises and curses alike from his ragged throat. The camp had to have heard them, but neither quieted, neither stopped. They melted into one another, chasing down the ecstasy of orgasm together, crying out the other’s name at their joined climax.

When they could both breath normally once more, Dorian gently undid the ropes from Mahanon. “Let me rub your arms, amatus. They’ll be sore and we need to get that blood flowing once more.”

Mahanon was happy to sit on the bed with him, letting Dorian run his warm hands up and down his arms, melting away aftershocks of the orgasm that had flooded his system. “I love you, Dorian.”

“And I, you, Mahanon.” Dorian leaned in to set his lips against Mahanon’s. The massage lapsed slightly in place of their kiss. 

Soft lips and this tenderness that came from Dorian convinced Mahanon that he could spend the rest of his life in the man’s lip, just kissing him. He didn’t care to think of anything outside of this moment, and he clung to Dorian hoping to keep this moment as long as possible.

 

Halamshiral.

The red jacket was uncomfortable, but the politics were worse. He tried to follow as much of Josephine’s advice as possible to make it easier; however, the silent, running dialogue in his head was hateful and helped him to keep a calm exterior. Mahanon wanted to be out of the palace walls with his blades in his hands once more. Perhaps he’d have to kill whatever assassin was sent; that was a pleasant enough thought.

Out in the courtyard, Dorian still stood on his own, sipping from a small crystal glass. Mahanon was currently stuck with three masked women claiming to be the voice for the empress.  He went along with their words for now. His eyes kept darting to Dorian who hadn’t seemed to have noticed him yet. 

“Pardon me, ladies. I have misattended one of my companions and must beg forgiveness of him. I do appreciate your connection and will return when I have information for you.” He smiled his fakest smile; from what he’d learned, he did not trust the Empress. Still, she needed to make it out alive for the sake of thwarting Corypheus. Mahanon’s own blade in the dark after everything was done could take care of his guilty conscience. It would be more effective than these fumbling assassins, especially if he planned her downfall on his own. 

They nodded their goodbyes and Mahanon swept over to Dorian, deftly avoiding the gaze or drawing remarks from anyone else in the garden. “Ma vhenan,” he whispered as he stood perhaps a touch closer than he should have been standing.

Dorian smiled down at him and took another sip from his drink--wine from the scent that drifted down to the elf. “Amatus. How are you faring with this wicked Orlesian nobles?” They kept their voices low whispers between themselves. 

Within this private moment, Mahanon found it hard to force a smile that Dorian would just see through anyway. “I’m holding my own, I suppose.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. 

“I could steal you away. Surely you couldn’t be blamed for your own kidnapping by the evil ‘Vint?” He grinned wickedly and nudged their shoulder’s together.

Mahanon laughed. “Don’t tempt me.” He was hesitant to move and stop touching the other man, so carefully he kept his shoulder leaned against Dorian. “I do actually have a few things to follow-up on. I’d like you and The Iron Bull to come with me.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed and his lips pulled into a frown beneath his perfectly coiffed mustache. “Oh, full title for Bull. This must be serious.”

\--

The night was late. The Empress was safe, Gaspard was exiled along with Brialla, and Florianne had been carted off for imprisonment. Now, Mahanon stood on a terrace alone, contemplating the events he’d forcibly pushed into place. 

“Another mission accomplished?” Dorian’s voice sounded from the doorway.

Mahanon didn’t turn; he set his arms on the marble banister and stared out over the back of the palace. “‘Suppose so. Still doesn’t feel much like victory.”

Arms looped around Mahanon’s middle and Dorian’s larger frame pressed against him. It felt safe and just what he needed. “What would feel like a victory?”

“Driving out these awful Orlesians and filling this place with elves?” Mahanon kept his tone joking, snorting a half-laugh at the end.

Dorian outright laughed, rocking Mahanon’s body as he stayed clinging to him. “That does seem much better than what fills it now.” He rested his chin on Mahanon’s shoulder and gave his cheek a kiss. “Anything else?”

“Killing Coryphe-shit and-” He wanted to say taking over Thedas himself with the army he’d amassed via the Inquisition, but that was likely wrong. “And settling down with you.”

“Cory--” Dorian snorted. “Sera is an awful influence on you. Much worse than any influence I may have imparted to you.”

Mahanon chuckled and turned carefully in Dorian’s arms so that they faced each other. “You’ve only had the best influence on me. I don’t think I’d be standing here if it wasn’t for your support.”

“I could say much the same. I wouldn’t have likely walked away from my father were you not there for me.”

“ I’m glad I was there. You do not deserve what they’ve done to you,” Mahanon whispered.

Dorian made a humming noise in his throat as he gazed down at Mahanon. “You know, I turned down five different drinks to keep sober as you requested. I believe it was because you wanted a dance from me? Shall we have it, then?”

Warmth crept over Mahanon’s cheeks. “I didn’t bring any scarves, though.”

With a derisive snort, Dorian shook his head and stepped back from Mahanon enough that they could maneuver away from the railing. He placed his hands as to lead, and the elf fell in tune with him. There was still a faint ringing of music from the revelry that refused to die down even after such scandal. It reached them enough that Dorian could keep beat with it as he spun Mahanon around.

It was only under Josephine’s ministrations that Mahanon had learned these human dances. This wasn’t the sort of dancing his clan had done, and while it wasn’t as fun as what his clan did, he found it was at least enjoyable with Dorian. He didn’t need to repeat the experience in front of a crowd again. He put his head against Dorian’s chest and let the man lead them around the little balcony.  


	7. Did not ourselves the Cubits warp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trespasser Spoilers. Mahanon and Dorian keeping the Inquisition going. Divine Victoria helps.

The Winter Palace. 

Mahanon wasn’t a fan of the place and neither were most of those in the Inquisition’s leadership. Still, the talks with Divine Victoria and the direction of the Inquisition were necessary.

With all of the things that had gone wrong, Mahanon felt he was learning how to deal with grief fairly well. At every turn he found himself faced with loss, death, betrayal. Two years had passed since Dorian had gone back to Tevinter, without him. Though they’d talked about Mahanon joining him, their duties for the Inquisition did not allow him to follow Dorian, and the man’s determination to make Tevinter a better place was something Mahanon could not deny him. The good he was doing, the struggle he took upon himself to become ambassador to the Inquisition, was right for him. Mahanon wished they could see one another, but that would have to wait until they both accomplished their goals.

Walking through the grounds of the Winter Palace once more, Mahanon tried to keep himself calm. Once he finished his duties here, he would meet up with Dorian for some time alone with the man. They would not start the talks for another day at least. Still, Mahanon had responsibilities to connect with those around the compound. He’d already met up with Cullen, Bull and the Chargers, and got to see his best friend in the funniest hat. It was admittedly strange to see Cassandra out of armor and in the robes of The Divine, but she would be doing so many wonderful things for Thedas that the sacrifice seemed little. Privately, they'd decided that Mahanon would support Cassandra and keep the Inquisition in her hands as she had been the one to create it. He hoped he could keep that promise when the talks began, but Mahanon had expectations of it's direction he wasn't willing to let those ambitions fall apart. If need be, he would let down his closest friend to ensure he did what he felt was most right.

It pained him to think of the separate ways each of his new family seemed to be pulled. He had hoped that they would be his new Clan in a way that the Dalish had always been for him. That was not the way the Inquisition worked though; that was not the way to change the course of the world.

Finding a bench alone, staring out over the back of the gardens, Mahanon sat with his thoughts. He was not who he had been at the start of this, of that he was certain. What was unclear to him was whether or not this was a bad thing. At times, it felt negative, but at others it just felt necessary.

“Amatus,” came a voice from behind him. Warmth and familiarity flowed from the words and washed down Mahanon like rain.

Jumping from his seated position, Mahanon flew across the bench and over the grass to Dorian. He leapt up, launching himself into the man’s arms. Of course, Dorian caught him and he wrapped his legs around Dorian's waist. 

Dorian laughed loudly and shifted his hands under Mahanon’s thighs to keep him up. “It’s good to see you, too. You must be terribly bored without me constantly by your side.”

“Yes, I am! The world is so ugly without you,” Mahanon attempted to put on a joking tone, but with his face buried in Dorian’s neck, he feared that wasn’t what came across. He was sure he sounded quite like he was begging something from Dorian. “You can’t go away again. We’re going to run away because all of this will fall apart in a matter of hours anyway. We’ll get a farm and raise halla and druffalo. I’ll get one of those big mabari dog things just like Cullen has. We can grow food. Do you know how? I know how to hunt, so we’ll be fine,” Mahanon rambled on, lost in his own pleading though not believing a word of it himself. Dorian took away all sense from him it would seem.

Still, he laughed again and rubbed a hand up and down Mahanon’s back, somehow still putting up with the elf clinging to him. “I would not do well on a farm, Mahanon. I think you know this. And you’re ruffling my new silks.”

“Well, I’m not letting go until you concede to running away with me. Maybe we could start our own shem-Dalish clan.” Tucking his nose closer to Dorian’s neck, Mahanon inhaled the man’s scent, letting it sink to the depths of his soul once more. He would never forget the flower-spice mixture that seemed to coat the man’s skin, but it had faded somewhat in his absence.

“I’ve worked so hard on this outfit, though.” Dorian’s huff of breath sounded fake, but Mahanon climbed down all the same. “How are you?”

Mahanon’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a taut line. “Mildly miserable.”

Reaching a hand out, Dorian brushed his fingers along Mahanon’s cheek. “I feel much the same in your absence. I’m sorry, amatus.”

“We do what we must. Still, this will  _ not _ be a permanent situation. I would conquer all of Thedas to have you at my side again.” Mahanon sighed and stepped back a couple paces to take in all of Dorian. The man looked as wonderful as ever. The silks were half-robes draped over tight leather pants and an open chested shift with billowed sleeves. It was all blacks and golds with a cutting of dark green in the shape of a striking serpent slithering around his waist and up over his shoulder. His skin seemed darker, as though he’d been lounging out in the sun. Jewelry decked his fingers, his neck, ears, and even his nose now. Dorian was beautiful, that god Mahanon wanted to worship. However, his eyes were something else--sunken and tired. They spoke of the distance between the two more than anything else. Pressing forward again, Mahanon sought his lips.

With an easy acquiesce, Dorian and Mahanon lost themselves in each other. When the pulled back, breathless, Dorian smiled down at him. “I would love to watch you conquer the world in my name. How flattering!’

“Careful, your encouragement might make me take action.”

“And your idolization might turn my mind to godhood, the thing I’m trying to defeat in Tevinter at the moment. If you remember why I’ve left.” Dorian seemed reluctant to let go of Mahanon as he kept his hands planted firmly on the elf’s waist.

Mahanon gave an impish grin. “Your godhood would be better than what we’ve seen of it so far. Besides, if I’m conquering the world, what blame could possibly fall to you?”

Dorian tsked at him. “I suspect you still have people you need to speak with before you’re truly free tonight. Hurry that along so we can spend some real time together. I’m roomed in the East Wing, the very last door on the right.” 

 

~*~*~

 

It was well after nightfall when Mahanon was finally able to drag himself away from the social bonds of Orlesian nobles and Fereldan dignitaries. His shoulders sagged beneath the formal leather and satin he was buried beneath. His feet dragged in the heavy leather boots, scuffing along the red carpeting and tripping up the stairs to the East Wing. Throwing his hands out, Mahanon caught himself on the stairs, a knee hitting one on his way down. He hissed and held himself, half fallen, for a moment to regain his composure. Fortunately, the place was empty as everyone else had gone to bed by now. Not even a serving elf was left wandering about the dormitory halls. 

Serving elves. Bile rose to the back of his throat at the thought of it, but there wasn’t much he could do until he solidified the Inquisition as a force necessary to the betterment of Thedas. Pushing himself upright, Mahanon took careful, deliberate steps the rest of the way up the stairs. He headed for the end of the hallway and hesitated at the last rooms. Right or left...what had Dorian told him? Right. It was right, he was sure of it.

Mahanon turned and knocked lightly on the door to the right, holding his breath and hoping. The door opened to a familiar, smiling face with a perfectly curled mustache and beaming bright eyes. Dorian was all too awake for this time of night, but his excitement was catching. Mahanon thought perhaps a mere few minutes in the man’s presence could provide him a taste of immortality; that’s what he hoped to find with him tonight.

“Ma vehnan,” Mahanon hummed as he stood in the doorway, eyes roving the Tevinter’s face.

“You’re finally here! I thought to come looking for you soon, that perhaps you’d been swept away by some handsome Orlesian.” The glint in Dorian’s narrowing eyes was playful.

Still, Mahanon pushed his shoulder. “There’s no such thing as a handsome Orlesian. Now let me in before I collapse in the hallway.”

Dorian stepped aside and shut the door once Mahanon had stepped in. Then, he wrapped an arm about the elf’s waist and directed him towards the large canopy bed. The lacey canopy was drawn around it, enclosing the large bed from the soft glow of burning candles about the room. On the bed was a tray with two glasses and a small plate of delicacies, candies and fresh fruit. As Mahanon was lead closer, he saw next to the plate there was also a small box like one he’d seen Orlesians put jewelry in.

“What’s that?” Mahanon asked as he started pulling his shoes off.

Dorian had dropped his hand away and was pulling back the see through curtains around the bed so that he could climb on, careful not to knock over anything on the tray. “You’ll see when you join me up here.”

A smile played at Mahanon’s lips as he dropped the heavy jacket from his shoulder revealing his bare torso. He climbed up through the curtains that Dorian held apart and carefully situated himself next to Dorian and the treats. Snatching out with quick fingers, Mahanon snagged a strawberry from the plate and popped it in his mouth, squinting his eyes closed as the delicious juice spread over his tongue. He heard Dorian chuckle and felt a hand slither over his back to rest on his shoulder. 

“When you’re quite finished, I’ll answer your question.”

Swallowing the berry, Mahanon deposited the green bunch of leaves to the plate and gave his attention back to Dorian, blinking tired and content. 

Dorian cleared his throat and picked up the little box. He played with it, twisting it around as he looked down at it. “I know that your traditions are not the same as mine.” His eyes would not leave the little box. “But I wanted... well, I want you to know what you really mean to me.” Dorian flipped the lid open revealing a thick silver ring with etchings around it, the twisting of vines or a snake, Mahanon couldn’t tell from that distance. “Mahanon Lavellan, the best surprise and love and my life, would you do me the most honor I will ever receive and be my husband?”

Finally, Dorian had looked up. Mahanon stared back in his eyes and felt his jaw slowly fall open. He was gaping when he should be answering the man, but he was still stuck in surprise. As serious as they’d been, Mahanon had never really considered any bonding ceremonies, human or elven.

“Ye-yes, of course. Yes!” He stumbled at first, building his excitement with each syllable. Reaching out a hand, Mahanon awaited the ring to be placed on his finger.

The ring fit neatly on his left ring finger, Dorian’s hand caressing his as he put it there. The man brought Mahanon’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Mahanon’s breath caught in his throat, his once tired mind flooding with excitement and disbelief.

“Thank you,” Dorian whispered and there were droplets of tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. As he smiled, his eyes drew crows feet in the corners and the tears fell, one and then two, soft and happy.

Mahanon’s chest tightened even more and he barely restrained himself from throwing himself across the bed to enveloped Dorian in a hug; he would have spilled the glasses of what smelled like sweet champagne. Instead, he clasped Dorian’s hand in his own and kissed it back. “Thank  _ you _ , ma vhenan. This is amazing.”

Letting Dorian’s hand go, Mahanon brought the ring closer to his face so he could have a better look. It was a snake, twisted around a branch with its mouth opening to release blossoms of the branch. The work was finely detailed and must have cost Dorian a fortune. “It’s beautiful, Dorian.”

“And I have its match,” he said pulling out a chain from beneath his robes on which dangled another silver band. “It’s not traditional that both wear a wing before wedding, but I don’t think we’re all that typical, hmm? And if we’re to parted depending on the outcome of these talks, I want us both to have something of each other.”

Mahanon frowned. “Let’s not think about parting just yet. I want to enjoy this moment, and you, and merely have tonight to ourselves with nothing else on our minds.”

Dorian’s face split into a wide smile. “Deal. Now, let’s taste this champagne.” He handed one to Mahanon and held aloft his own for a toast.

The little classes clinked as they tapped them together. After a sip, they fell into the snacks, Mahanon holding up a grape to Dorian’s lips. Dorian peeled back orange slices for Mahanon. They found a way to stretch out like happy cats while they ate and sipped, slowly losing their articles of clothing as they snacked. Soon, the tray was empty and they were strewn over the bed and each other, lazy kisses tasting of sweet fruit. 

Mahanon pushed Dorian’s legs apart and sank between them, trailing kisses down his stomach. He wrapped his lips around the head of Dorian’s penis and sucked lightly before running his tongue around the ridge. With gasps and moans edging him on, Mahanon slowly lowered his entire mouth over the erection, sheathing it in his throat until his nose was buried in the dark, coarse curls at Dorian’s pelvis. A rich, heady scent washed through his senses and he bobbed his head up and down slow as a hot summer’s day. Before Dorian could get too close to climax, Mahanon moved his lips down, slicking him with spit and working him open slowly first with tongue then fingers.

When it seemed Dorian could take no more, Mahanon pulled back and moved up his body. He grabbed one of Dorian’s legs just behind the knee and lifted it to open him up. He slid himself inside and they both cried out together at the tight, full feeling. Dorian clenched his muscles around Mahanon and the elf’s hips gave an involuntary buck at the feeling, rocking them both. He grabbed at Dorian’s hair with his freehand, entangling his fingers in the silken locks. He could feel Dorian’s hands gripping and clawing at his back as they fell into a quick rhythm. Words weren’t needed as sighs and groans filled the space between them, their bodies becoming covered in a sheen of sweat as they worked themselves together. 

Both of them came with a cry on their lips which Mahanon drowned with a kiss. Their hips gave a few last lazy circles and they parted, sprawling on their backs as breath came back to their lungs. Eventually, they drew back to one another and entwined themselves beneath the sheets. Candles still glowed around the room, giving it a soft effervescent feeling as sleep battled to find them. They succumbed, not caring that in the morning they’d likely be caught with one another.

 

~*~*~

 

Mahanon stumbled back through the eluvian and his arm felt as though it was melting off in a fire. He cried out and collapsed to the floor, gripping it and willing the pain to go away. His mind was swimming in fire and he wondered if this would be his sudden end. It hadn’t seemed as though this moment was the one Solas--Fen’harel wanted him to experience as his demise, but Mahanon had yet to make sense of everything he’d just learned. Perhaps this was it, the end to Thedas and every ambition Mahanon had been brewing inside of himself. 

Hands were on him in a moment, voices crowding around and echoing through the hum of pain that had seemed to take over his consciousness. It was a pair of familiar silver-brown eyes that brought him some semblance of reality.

“Cut it off,” he ground out through his clenched teeth. 

“What?!” Dorian’s voice pitched an octave higher than it normally was.

“Cut. It. Off.” Mahanon could not unclench his teeth without crying out as the green power pulsed through his arm in spasms. “It’s going to kill me if you don’t.”

By that time, there were others gathered around who he recognized. Cassandra, The Iron Bull, Cullen, Sera…

“Hold him still,” Cullen barked out, taking hold of Mahanon’s shoulder that wasn’t attached to the glowing arm. “Bull?” He nodded his head at the Qunari’s greataxe. It would be the best weapon to cut through the bone cleanly, and Bull certainly had the strength for one stroke. 

Cassandra grapled Mahanon’s legs and Thom held his other arm. Dorian had slipped behind him to cradle his head. The elf tucked his face into the soft folds of the silken robes Dorian wore and kept his teeth clenched. Strong, soft hands pushed a roll of leather at his lips until he opened his mouth and bit down on that instead. That hand caressed the side of his face letting him know it was Dorian.

The rolling bass tones of The Iron Bull’s voice cut through the noise of the room. “Are you sure about this, boss?”

At this point, Mahanon could only nod. His vision blurred with the pain and the feel of his friends holding him down was beginning to bring on a claustrophobic feeling. What would his life be like right now if he hadn’t gone into that room? If he hadn’t followed the Divine’s cries for help? After a sickening crunch and thud, red-hot pain flooded Mahanon’s system until he blacked out. 

He came to what had to be quite a few minutes later as he’d been moved onto a cot and his arm was wrapped up. His friends were still gathered around him and each stirred as he came to. Mahanon knew better than to attempt to sit up just yet, but he shifted enough so that he could get a look at his left hand. His arm was gone just below the elbow. The bandages wrapped their way up to his biceps and the end was already soaking through red. He expected more pain.

“Amatus,” Dorian gasped and dropped down to his knees from the chair he’d been sitting in next to the cot.

Mahanon reached out with his right hand and grabbed Dorian’s, bringing it to his face to nuzzle. “I’m alright, Dor. I’m-” He choked for a moment, a sudden realization blossoming over his waking mind. “The ring!” He struggled upright to the sounds of gasps and protests from the others. “Dorian, the ring!”

“Calm down, easy, I have it. Don’t worry, I have it right here,” Dorian hushed as he eased Mahanon back down on the cot. He pulled out the chain from around his neck and both rings sat on it, clinking together as he moved them for the elf to see.

Relief eased Mahanon’s breathing, and he settled once more. “Solas was there,” he murmured. That drew everyone closer. Slowly, piecing together as much of the conversation as he could remember word for word, Mahanon told them about what happened with Fen’harel. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I’ll do whatever I must to keep the Inquisition together as a strong force. It will be needed soon, and I will not allow the politics of two nations damn the whole of Thedas.”

“I understand,” she said holding his gaze and giving a tight nod. She would, he knew, try to make things work out in their interest if possible. Everyone knew she had campaigned under the panel of change, of support for the Inquisition and its ability to protect the people of Thedas. People saw the Inquisition as hers as much as his. 

The room was quiet, but Dorian’s hand tightened in Mahanon’s grip. He looked up into the eyes of his fiance, fearing what he would see there. He found grim determination. A fire much like the one that burned in his own chest. If anyone knew of the ambitions to change a nation, it was Dorian Pavus. But could the two of them do it? Could just the two of them change their world?

It wasn’t just the two of them, though, was it? As Mahanon looked around at those gathered, he found they were likewise filled with the same powerful determination. Even if the Inquisition were to die in name, he would still have an army at his back. 

“Get my uniform. I have a meeting to attend,” Mahanon said. This time when he sat up, it was with confidence. Pain etched at the edge of his consciousness, but a touch from Dorian’s hand had it melting away again. The mage must have been working on that healing magic after all. It brought a smile to Mahanon’s lips and gave him the courage to face the wolves once more.


	8. For fear to be a King—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Game. Mahanon bringing some pieces of his life back together and setting up his next big move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Well, here we are folks. At the end. I’ve always been shite at endings, but I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. It’s highly likely this will be the start of a series that I will write, but as I will essentially be writing my version of “DA4”, it will take some time before I get the next part of this series posted. I’ll have quite a bit of plotting to do. Thanks for all of your likes, comments, and subscriptions! Stay tuned.)

We never know how high we are  
 Till we are called to rise;  
And then, if we are true to plan,  
 Our statures touch the skies—  
  
The Heroism we recite   
 Would be a daily thing,   
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp   
 For fear to be a King—

-Emily Dickinson

 

Mahanon Lavellan stood on the balcony of his room at Skyhold, staring out over the moon-clad mountains. It had seemed to be years since he’d been back to the imposing castle, though in reality it had only been a few months at most. Still, everything he’d discovered at the Winter Palace, through the eluvians, had seemed to take such a long time. The Inquisition still stood under the head of Divine Victoria with Mahanon still leading as her Inquisitor. Most of his Inner Circle had come back, and those who hadn’t still planned to pass through as often as possible, keeping in touch via messages. 

Dorian hurt the most. The man was in too precarious a position to leave Tevinter now, but Mahanon understood. He fingered at the locket around his neck, knowing that when he most needed, he could speak across thousands of miles and hear Dorian’s voice in return. It was a wonderful gift, second only to the ring that hung next to it on the chain around his neck. Mahanon refused to let them marry until they could settle down together, and Dorian had begrudgingly agreed to this arrangement.

He turned away and strode barefoot to his desk, brushing through the stacks of reports that were stacked there; it was harder to keep organized with only one arm. Guard had been placed on the Eluvian with Morrigan keeping near constant watch, her ties to Mythal still a mystery as the witch had yet to rear her head again. The Iron Bull was out in the wilds, his team tracking down the remnants of Corypheus’s people and seeking answers to the near invasion of Qunari. He still had contacts to put to use and made sure to send Mahanon reports as often as possible. Sera and her people were doing much the same on the Venatori front, taking out any who remained and any further who sought to escape Dorian’s clenching fist in Tevinter. Varric, Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, Cole, Thom, and Vivienne had stayed with him in Skyhold and were working the soldiers and mages who remained with them much like they had before Corypheus’s downfall. Everyone knew that while they’d won, things weren’t over. As much as the inner circle tried to keep things underwraps, things got out and gossip spread. 

Mahanon sank into the chair and started reading through the reports, wondering at how not many years ago he was wandering with his Clan, sneaking around to hear stories that proved to be falsehoods now. If Keeper Deshanna could hear what he’d learned, how her heart would break. He hadn’t heard from anyone of his Clan since the attack led against them; he wasn’t sure anyone was even still alive or if he was the last of the Lavellans. 

Setting the report down to tap his fingers in thought, he came up with an idea. With all the roaming Sera and The Iron Bull were doing, he bet he could get them to track down news of the Clan. With things settling out and time not being as pressed as before, he would really like to know what had truly happened to them. 

Mahanon penned two letters, one to Sera and one to Bull. Thankfully he hadn't lost his writing hand. He padded down out of his rooms, still barefoot, and headed for the rookery where he hoped to find Leliana. She had been a little disappointed at the outcome of the conclave choosing Cassandra and spent a lot of her time in solitary. Mahanon couldn’t blame her, but he didn’t stop trying to coax her out from hiding. Josephine had managed better on that front, though.

The crows squawked around him as he climbed up the stairs, pausing briefly at the red chair in the little nook that Dorian had claimed for so long. A slight detour wouldn’t hurt. He set the letters down and ran his remaining hand over the fabric, picturing the conversations, the tears, the laughter. This was where he’d first expressed his liking for Dorian and where they’d shared their first kiss. Somehow, people just knew to avoid it, leaving the space as a sanctuary untouched but for the quick glance and grab at a needed tome or book. Mahanon sat in the chair and closed his eyes, inhaling. He could almost smell the man but wondered if that was mostly his imagining. He fingered the bauble around his neck and resisted opening it up and calling Dorian. This early in the afternoon meant Dorian would likely be busy with meetings; if he were to interrupt that, it could mean disaster for whatever the mage was working on. 

Pulling himself from pity, Mahanon grabbed the letters and trotted off again, circling up higher and closer to the noisy birds. Leliana was there, sat in a chair and staring out of one of the windows. Mahanon approached quietly, standing in front of the table that separated the two. When she turned to him, he offered a smile and held out the letters. 

“I need to get these to Sera and The Iron Bull. Nothing urgent. Personal matters, really, but I was hoping your birds could help?” He had to wonder how much of her anger at the way things had ended up was directed at him. He’d been there when she’d killed the young woman to get to what Justinia had left her. He’d pushed for her ruthlessness on many an occasion and she seemed darker for it somehow. Mahanon wondered how many people he’d darkened with his Inquisition, for it certainly hadn’t been the plan. 

Leliana nodded and took the letters from him. “Of course, Inquisitor. My scouts have kept an eye on both of them. They should be reached within a day.”

“Thank you.” Mahanon turned to go, but then stopped. “Leliana?”

“Hmm?” She looked up from the table with furrowed eyebrows. 

“Thank you for everything you’ve given to the Inquisition. I know that I ask a lot of everyone. I realize that I’ve had you do things against your better nature, and while thank you may be the wrong sentiment, it’s the only one I know to give.” 

There was a long moment of silence between the two and Mahanon’s hand fisted nervously. Maybe his thanks was wrongly placed and she really did despise him for everything he’d put them through. Then, Leliana inclined her.

“You’re welcome.” She flitted her hand and went on to tie the notes up, calling down two of her crows. “We each knew what would be asked of us long before you became Inquisitor. I would have done no less for Justinia.” 

“I fear that she would have been able to keep you from things that I could not.”

“That fact that you show such concern speaks to the person you are, Mahanon. I do not hold any ills toward my position with you.” She smiled, wrapping the first note around one of the bird’s feet. She whispered something to it and away it sprang, darting out of the window. “You shouldn’t hold so much on your shoulders. We’re in this together, you know.”

A smile slipped its way across Mahanon’s lips and he bowed his head to her. “Let me know as soon as we have a response from those birds, please.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor.”

 

Mahanon had just sunk into the warm, steaming waters of the bath when the trinket Dorian had given him lit up and his voice poured through.

“Amatus?”

The elf chuckled and reached a hand out of the water to grab the locket he’d left next to the baths, still on the chain with his ring. He set it close to the ledge and dropped back down so that his shoulders were beneath the water. “I’m here. You have either the best or worst timing. I haven’t yet decided.”

“Where are you?” Dorian’s voice echoed through the room.

Mahanon splashed at the water and grinned. “Guess.”

A chuckle came through and then what sounded like a purring growl. “The baths?”

“Mhm.” He rested his head against the side, closing his eyes, and pretended that Dorian was in the water with him. “I miss having you around to help me wash my hair. It's much harder now.”

“You always had such soft hair when I was finished. I could run my fingers through it for days,” Dorian drawled. His tone was hushed and Mahanon wondered where he was at. “Are you taking proper care of yourself while I’m away?”

With a sigh and another splash, Mahanon said, “Yes, of course. Josephine makes sure I eat, Cullen makes sure I train, and I do my best with all of these bottles you send me. I still don’t know what to make of the jar of not-sand.”

Dorian laughed again, louder this time. “They’re bath salts. Add some to your water and they’ll help moisturize your skin and add some fragrance to your wash.”

“Hmm,” Mahanon hummed. “Perhaps I’ll try that out next time.”

It was silent for a moment and Mahanon’s heart picked up its pace. He kept waiting for the day that the magic would fade from the locket and he wouldn’t be able to speak with Dorian any longer. His fear was quickly wiped out when Dorian spoke back up, voice low and rocky.

“I wish I was there with you, touching you.” Dorian made what sounded like a purring growl. “I want to run my fingers over your skin, to trace the vallaslin across your face and each freckle on your shoulders.” Mahanon’s breath hitched as he placed his hand on his own chest, dragging his fingers over his skin. “Touch yourself for me, amatus.”

With a gasp, “I am.” 

“Good boy,” Dorian hummed. “Run your hand over your chest for me, press into your pec and drag your fingers down like I do.”

Mahanon did as he was told, his fingers tracing paths over his body that Dorian asked of him. They were familiar pathways and closing his eyes, it was easy to think that Dorian was here doing this himself.

“Wrap your fingers around your pretty cock, gently.” The words from Dorian’s voice punched at Mahanon’s gut more than the feeling of his fingers curled around his erection. He gave a soft tug upward as Dorian spoke again. “Run your thumb over the head, in a circle and then press at your slit.”

With a gasp at the feeling, Mahanon repeated the action again. 

“Good boy. Such a beautiful boy, amatus. Tip your head back while you stroke yourself. Arch your back for me,” Dorian hummed. His own breath was starting to come in pants and heaves. He must be touching himself as well, Mahanon thought. This thought pushed him even further into ecstasy. 

He did as Dorian asked, arching back over the edge of the bath, holding himself up with his left elbow; the bit of forearm that had made it out of the ordeal was enough to help balance him properly. “Fuck, Dorian, this is good.”

“Mm, such a dirty mouth on such my pretty boy. Let’s see what other obscenities we can draw from you, shall we?” Dorian chuckled breathily.

“Yes, please. Creat-” Mahanon choked on his once-faith. “Dorian, please.” He had a new god now, though, didn’t he? He would bend knee under Dorian’s voice if he so asked it. 

Another laugh echoed through the room. “Fuck yourself on your fingers. Pretend that it’s me, my length riding inside of you, giving you everything you know you need.”

Mahanon felt dizzy at his words but reached down between his legs, pushed his fingers slowly inside of himself. He groaned and started to babble in elven while Dorian encouraged him. “That’s it. That’s my good, beautiful boy. So good, Mahanon.” His breath hitched and Mahanon could picture Dorian with his own fingers around his cock or slicking in and out of his own ass. 

With a bark, Mahanon came in a short pulse. He heard Dorian follow suit with a soft grunt and a long exhale of tight breath. “Well, now you’ve made me ruin my bath, ma vhenan.”

“I do apologize, amatus. I  _ am _ such a wicked, wicked man that I couldn’t help myself.”

“Mm, I hope that never change.” Mahanon felt sleepiness wash over him, but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Dorian. “How long do you have?”

He felt the sigh as much as he heard. “Not long, I’m afraid. I have to meet with Maevaris soon. We’ll be presenting a new law on the floor in two day’s time and we have to make sure that those who will support us are properly bribed, threatened, or truly on our side.”

“Be careful, Dor. I worry about you and all of those politics.”

The laugh was one of those fake ones that Dorian used to sport during the Inquisition, one that Mahanon hadn’t heard in quite a long time. It put his nerves even more on edge. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve danced with the worst of them time and again, and I have still come out on top.”

“Just…” Mahanon shook his head, climbing out of the water and wrapping himself in the warmth of a large towel. “Please promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Only if you’ll promise me the same.”

Hesitation. Could he really promise that? Could Dorian really promise that? “Fine. I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Then I promise the same,” Dorian said. “I hate to go, amatus, but I’m afraid I must. I’ll talk with you again as soon as I can, yes?”

Mahanon nodded then remembered he couldn’t be seen. “Yes, soon. Real soon, please.”

“Of course,” Dorian said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The connection was lost as the light faded from the necklace and suddenly Mahanon felt like crying.

 

Mahanon paced the long, stone path from the throne to the hulking front doors of Skyhold. He tried to clasp his hands behind his back before remembering he was missing one, so he settled on wrapping his fingers around the bicep of what remained of his left arm. Sunlight shone in from the floor to ceiling windows behind the throne, casting a myriad of colors over the stone floors and the dinning tables. Amidst those tables, people sat in quiet chittering. Mahanon had half a mind to kick them all out as their voices pecked at his ears with each step. How long would he have to wait? It’d been years already and he craved this more than he originally realized. 

Panic pushed Mahanon’s heart up into his throat and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow and breathe properly. Five. Sera had tracked down five of the Lavellans, Keeper Deshanna amongst their numbers. He couldn’t wait to see them but there was also a fear that he had changed too much for their approval. Mahanon would tell his Keeper what he’d found out even if it meant she would cast him out for disgracing their gods.

_ Gods _ . Mahanon snorted and his hand tightened on his arm.  _ What a joke they are. _

The doors opened with a heavy creak and a new strand of light cast its way up to Mahanon’s booted feet where he stood on the platform that held his throne. He stopped moving, stopped breathing, and narrowed his eyes against the shaft of light that turned those who entered into shadow silhouettes. The small, bouncy frame that bounded up to him had to be Sera; she wrapped herself around Mahanon in a hug and whispered in his ear, “Save me from your elfy elves!”

Mahanon chortled and patted her back. “Thank you, Sera. I think Thom is in the tavern waiting to have a drink with you.”

“Ooh, perfect!” She bounded away as quickly as she came.

That left a small, huddled group of five Dalish standing before Mahanon and his throne. The one at the front held a twisted wooden staff with a crystal lodged in the loops at the top. Her eyes were large and bright beneath shock white hair that trailed down in a braid nearly to her knees. Swirls of unruly pieces drifted down around her face, barely obscuring the vallaslin that painted her warmly tanned skin. Aside from a few wrinkles, she looked much as Mahanon remembered from the day he’d said goodbye to his Clan. 

Mahanon’s breath was stuck again, eyebrows turned down in anticipation, teeth nibbled at his bottom lip, and his hand now gripped at the fabric of his pants. Deshanna smiled at him, holding out her arm that wasn’t grasping the staff. An invitation; she didn’t hate him!

Bounding down the couple of steps from the throne’s platform floor, Mahanon wrapped himself up in Deshanna’s arms. 

“Aneth ara. Ir abelas, Hahren.” Mahanon felt tears pricking at the edges of his eyes as he closed them, tucking his face to Deshanna’s hair and inhaling. She smelled of the woods and of magic; she smelled of home.

“Hush, da’len. You have done no wrong,” Deshanna whispered as she ran a hand up and down his back. “Always such a sweet boy, Mahanon, but you take too much on your own heart.”

Mahanon should let her go. He should step back and get them settled in while they decide what the next step for the Clan was. But he couldn’t yet. It felt that if he let his arms slip away, they would disappear again. “I could have done more for you. I could have gone myself, saved you.”

He felt things being shuffled around though neither he nor Deshanna let go. Keeping his face buried in her hair, Mahanon felt her other arm come around to embrace him; someone must have taken her staff. She put her hands to his shoulders and pulled him back so that they were looking one another in the eye.

“You listen to me, and listen well for once.” She waited until he nodded. “There was nothing more you could have done. You have done more for us and for Thedas right here.” She ran her hands down his arms, stopping where his left had been cut off. “Lethallin, what happened?”

His chest constricted at the memories, at what he would have to tell her. “Perhaps we should get everyone settled before I tell you that story.”

Understanding bloomed across her face, and Deshanna got the little troup moving. They were set up in a large suite, not a single one wanting their own room. Rianen, Lellanon, and Maren were not among those who survived. He felt a sharp pang at their distinct loss, but found himself warmed by the embrace of the four others. While he wasn’t a close with these, they were still Lavellan. They were still his family and he could cry with happiness that even they few had made it. He said as much to each before he was taken away by Deshanna for their talk.

 

Two weeks later, Deshanna and the others were still with the Inquisition. They had folded themselves under Lelianna’s wing, working as scouts and spies after all the practice they’d had the last few years. Mahanon was glad to have them, some pieces of his life coming back together. The newfound stability reawoke something in Mahanon that he hadn’t felt since Haven, standing in the Chantry and deciding to give his life so that the others could get away safely. The determination he felt kicking the handle of the catapult, the dark joy that bloomed through his chest upon seeing Corypheus’s twisted face watching everything come literally crashing down, was built back up with a fire. 

He just needed to get to Tevinter and tell his plans to Dorian. Mahanon would not take this on alone; he would not create a world apart from Dorian Pavus. The most difficult part would be escaping Lelianna’s watchful eye, but he had some thoughts about that. He would need to enlist The Iron Bull’s help for that one, and lucky for him, the Bull was returning for a time and should be back at Skyhold any hour now. Of course, Mahanon’s plans had revolved around this knowledge. He just hoped he’d judged the man as well as he thought.

In deciding that if he kept busy, sneaking Bull away for a secret meeting would be less conspicuous than doing so after lounging all afternoon, Mahanon ran about Skyhold taking care of the little things, small tasks and conversations that he’d put off in favor of reconnecting with what was left of his clan. He busied himself until nearly nightfall when the Chargers had lodged themselves firmly in Harold’s Rest. Between all the running around, he’d managed to get a bag of things together, just enough to last the trip. It was stashed out behind the Rest in a corner that Mahanon guessed was used for catching a quick kiss away from prying eyes. Hopefully there weren’t any lovers out tonight who would stumble on the pack.

Entering the tavern always resulted in a lungful of bitter beer and an earful of singing--either from Maryden or the Chargers. Sometimes both, competing in a way that would drive most decent people from their seats and drinks. Tonight, it was the Chargers. Maryden was sitting with her own drink and watching the little group joke around.

Mahanon hung off to the side, away from the bar. It was Bull’s blind side, but he was confident of catching the man’s attention anyway; there was no way he didn’t have some set up to let him know what was happening in this corner of his world. In fact, Krem caught sight of him and hurriedly whispered in Bull’s ear. Good man. Krem could read a situation in seconds. He was a great second in command and Mahanon was thankful, not for the first time, of the man’s presence at The Iron Bull’s side. It was hard enough trying to care for the rest of his people, so knowing that one of the most important people to him was well taken care of was a huge relief.

The Iron Bull gave a quick nod to Mahanon and staged a quick retreat, for reasons Mahanon couldn’t hear over the din but trusted. He might no longer be Hissrad, but the talents stayed with him. 

Mahanon wandered out to the corner where he’d hidden his things. He did so slowly enough that when The Iron Bull emerged, he easily caught sight of him. Taking up a lean against one of the walls, Mahanon waited until they were both in the cover of the alcove, close enough to whisper.

“What’s up, boss?” 

“I need to get to Tevinter and Lelianna can’t follow.”

The Iron Bull snorted. “Ah, so something easy then. Sure you didn’t want to go after a dragon? Fight Corypheus again?” The man grinned. “I’m so up for fighting a dragon, boss, just so you know.”

Mahanon laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, I know you are Bull.” He sighed, straightened his shoulder, and looked up to Bull’s eye. “I’m sure though. I need to see Dorian, and not openly.”

Bull brought his blunt fingers, talons kept cut short and two fingers missing down from the first knuckle, up to his chin and scratched at the stubble there. “Won’t be a walk through an Orlaisian garden, but I can probably getcha there. If Lelianna does find out, won’t be till after.”

“That’ll have to do then,” Mahanon said with a nod.

“Can I ask a question or two?”

It was tempting to tell him know as he’d likely have ones that Mahanon was not yet comfortable answering, but he conceded. “Sure.”

“Why don’t you want Red knowing?”

“Complicated.”

“Uh huh. Why do you think I won’t object to something Red won’t agree with?”

Mahanon sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Honestly, I just thought you’d be the one _ not  _ to ask questions.”

It was The Iron Bull’s turn to laugh. “Fair enough, but I’m gonna ask anyway. We’ve been through some shit and I wanna make sure you’re in an okay place, boss.”

Something in the way that Bull looked at him, the way his voice softened as he spoke, had Mahanon want to spill everything right then and there. But that was meant for Dorian, so he settled on the vague truth, but still the truth all the same. “I’m not sure I am, Bull. But that’s why I want to get to Dorian. I have...plans, and I need to hear from Dorian whether I’m in my right mind about them or not. And not just over that stupid charm.” He took a breath and sagged against the wall. “I need to see him in person. It’s not the same so far apart.”

The Iron Bull nodded and put a heavy hand on Mahanon’s shoulder. “I understand. We’ll get ya there. Probably smuggle you on a thing with the Chargers.”

“I need to go tonight.” Mahanon cast his head towards the bag behind him. 

“Well, in that case I got an idea. Skinner’s gunna hate it, and Krem’s gunna hate  _ you _ , but it’ll do.” The Iron Bull removed his hand and turned away heading back in to the tavern.

Mahanon followed on his heels, curious. He knew asking wouldn’t get him anyway, boss or not, so he kept quiet and watched. Bull made a boisterous announcement about a special goodbye drink in his room with the team and Inquisitor and then they were off. The Chargers knew enough not to ask questions either, it seemed. 

The room was big, sure, but the Chargers weren’t small as a group. Mahanon found himself resting against the door, as he’d been the last one in, and watching the rest of the others pile around while still joking and jostling each other. Krem had taken up a spot leaning against the end of the bed and he was the one to bring order back around

“So what’s the deal, Chief?”

“Well, Krempuff, you’re going back to Tevinter.”

“Andraste’s tits, I am! Chief you’ve lost your mind!”

“Skinner, you’ll be dressing up as the Inquisitor and hanging in his quarters for a day or two.” Bull continued without addressing Krem’s outburst, and this brought them all to a quick, confused silence. “Our boss here needs to get to his ‘vint all quiet like, and we’re going to help him. Krem, you’re the best option for getting him into Minrathous and you know it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Krem grumbled and folded his arms over his chest. “Alright, Inquisitor. I can get you there. Hope that Magister is worth it…”

Mahanon knew Krem’s story, and so he understood the hesitation. “I really appreciate it, Cremissius. And I’ll try to make it a quick trip for you.”

Krem nodded his head and that was that. They set to work getting Skinner into something that could pass as Mahanon just long enough for her to disappear into his rooms. Fortunately, she had a very similar build to him, his shortness coming in handy. Rocky had fetched his bag along with things for Krem. When the night dwindled down to guards and the sleeping, Mahanon and Krem took off.

Fortune, for once, was with them. Krem and Mahanon managed their way into Tevinter without so much as a stubbed toe, though the elf cast wary glances over his shoulder every few leagues. Krem assured him each time that they weren’t being followed, but how could he be sure? How did he know if the big black bird that had flown overhead wasn’t one of the Spymaster’s? If she did know of his absence and subsequent whereabouts, she didn't seem to have sent anyone after him. He really hoped Bull and the others didn’t catch too much castoff from his maneuvering. 

Once in Minrathous, Mahanon felt overwhelmed. The city was bustling, much more so than Val Royeaux or any city the elf had had to subject himself to during the Inquisition. Even the ball at Halamshiral had paled in comparison to the sheer volumes of people here. 

Mahanon kept a hood up around his ears and face, casting himself in as much shadow as he could to hide the fact that he was an elf walking freely in the city. It was late afternoon, and the crowds were still thronging the market places and shops. He stuck as close to Krem as he could; however, the soparati didn’t seem any more confident. 

“Do you know where his estate is?” Mahanon asked, pressing close to his shoulder to speak in his ear. He had to go up on tiptoes to do so. 

Krem nodded and gestured with his head toward a towering archway that seemed to lead to another district of the city. It had Teven carved in it, words Mahanon didn’t know, and the carvings were cast in gold. Mahanon had thought the showmanship of Skyhold had been pretentious, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the opulence of Tevinter; he could definitely see how such a place, with such a mentality, could take over Thedas. 

The neighborhood they entered looked to be mostly homes, if one could call the towering mansions and their sprawling gardens homes. Each one looked to be a compound in and of itself making Mahanon wonder in which richness did Dorian reside. As it turned out, the Pavus Estate was at the far end of the neighborhood, tucked in a corner, but high up on the hill of the sloping city.

The two ducked down the side and Krem helped him over a tall wrought iron fence. The light from the sun was fading, casting the two in darker shadows now. They kept as small as they could and pressed to the bars to speak in whispers. 

“The balcony there, that’s to his room. He has a rotation of guards.” Krem nodded towards one who was rounding a corner and passing beneath the balcony. “We’ve watched the rotations, though, and they haven’t changed yet. You should talk to the Magister about that…” He shook his head disappointedly.

“Krem!” Mahanon hissed out, drawing him back to the moment.

“Right. Wait until he comes back around, then you have the count of thirty-five before he’s back.”

“A quick thirty-five or a slow one?”

The man moved his hands up and down, mimicking a scale. “I’d go quick, just in case.” 

“Well, you’ve got this down to a science,” Mahanon murmured. Really, he should have planned this better, told Dorian he was coming. But he couldn’t risk someone getting hold of a message, and he didn’t necessarily trust the magic of the crystal about his neck to not allow for eavesdropping. No, he’d done this as quietly as possible.

Krem pushed his shoulder. “Now!”

The guard had disappeared. Mahanon dashed across the large expanse of lawn, sticking as closely to the sculpted bushes and patches of tall flowers as he could. Seven….Eight….Nine….When he drew nearer, he eyed the way up-a trellis on the side that was close enough to make a small jump and land on the balcony. Mahanon nearly sent a silent prayer up to the Creators, but that turned to a curse and determination. Sixteen...seventeen...He did not have grace, but he would make this. Skidding from a sprint, Mahanon hauled himself up the trellis with quick hands and steady enough feet. Twenty-two...twenty-three. He was level with the balcony and could practically feel the anxiousness rolling off Krem still at the gate. Taking in a deep breath, Mahanon jumped, hands reaching for the railing. Thirty-two.

“Hey!” Krem yelled out from the gate, waving at something near the corner of the building. “This where that Inquisition loving Magister live?”

Mahanon was gripping the balcony railing, afraid to move or even breathe. The guard had come back around, but Krem had his attention now. The man stalked towards Krem at the gate, pulling a sword. Quietly as he could, Mahanon hauled himself over the rail and scrambled to the glass doors into the bedroom. He yanked and could have cried to find them open. He would really need to talk to Dorian about his security.

The room was as beautiful as Mahanon had thought it would be. Golds, blacks, and emerald greens covered the bed, the floors, the walls. Beautifully embroidered cloths hung along the walls, from a canopy on the bed. The furniture seemed to be carved from black stone, obsidian perhaps. The plush golden carpet called to be stepped on with bare feet.

Not knowing how long Dorian would be, Mahanon set to cleaning up. A corner of the room had a small wash-basin, and he found some washcloths in a drawer. There were small soaps and perfumes, everything Mahanon could ask for from his lover.

Clean and changed into a set of white, flowing fabrics he found in Dorian’s closet, Mahanon sunk his feet into that plush, golden carpet. The clothes he wore were a bit too big, cascading down his hands so he had to shake them upwards to grip his pants and hold them up, too. They smelled of Dorian, though, and they were comfortable. He wondered what Dorian would think to find him sprawled on his floor, in his clothes, smelling of his perfumes. Mahanon grinned when his groin tightened. He should have expected he’d be interested in making love to his vhenan before starting business.

As it turned out, Dorian didn’t come to his rooms until late into the night. Mahanon had cracked open the door to let some air in and curled up on the plush carpet again. He fell asleep there, threading his fingers through the tufts and watching out of the open doors as the stars fill the sky. He woke to a yelp and Tevene curses. 

“Fasta vass, amatus! You nearly scared the life out of me.” Dorian diminished into a string of Tevene sentences and Mahanon just shook his head.

“Ir abalas, ma vhenan.” He sat up, stretching his arms up and twisting his back, the soft fabric cascading down his arms as he did so. 

“Are you wearing my clothes, amatus?”

The elf blushed, chuckled, and nodded. “Do I look pretty?” He teasingly drew the fabric over the bridge of his nose to cover the lower part of his face. Then he tilted his head and dragged it along his cheek, preening.

Dorian sunk down onto the carpet with him, robes billowing out as he moved. “You’re absolutely stunning, as always.” His hands were on his face, drawing him into a kiss. “But why are you here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“That’s business for later. I didn’t want others to know I would be here,so I couldn’t give you warning.” Mahanon pushed his lips back to Dorian’s, hands roughing through the front of his robes to feel his warm skin. His fingers found their way there and spread out over Dorian’s chest. “I need to feel you, Dor. I need you and we can talk about the other stuff later. Please, I missed you.”

A laugh passed between their lips, shared as one. “I’ve missed you and your voracious appetite, too. And what an evil Magister I would be to deny you the beauty and indulgence of such a perfectly sculpted body.”

“Mm, yes,” Mahanon hissed as he nipped along Dorian’s jawline. “Tell me more about how handsome you are.”

Dorian’s head fell back as Mahanon climbed on top of him, and he arched into the elf’s touches. Happily taking control, Mahanon rid them of their robes, letting the silken materials collect around them where they lounged together. He was going to taste every part of Dorian that he could, re-etch each curve of his body, every impeccable bulge of muscle, every exquisitely placed beauty mark. 

Lying here with Dorian, Mahanon felt that nothing in Thedas could be wrong. All of the doubts that had built up within him faded away as the consuming need for the man beneath him took over. All ambitions could be achieved with this man at his side, but first, he would chase as many orgasms as he could find within them this night. Conquering the world was a matter for tomorrow.


End file.
